RWBY Backstories: Hero
by BleedItAndWeep
Summary: Sometimes the desire to protect drives us to unspeakable ends. We become twisted aberrations of ourselves, just to achieve our most desired outcomes... sometimes to the point that our victory was never worth it at all. In war, in life, in love... "I'd rather be a monster that protects than a Hero that fails." (Second in the RWBY Backstories series). Completed. !No longer canon!
1. Hero, I: The Wishful Child

_Recommended listening: Unravel (Acoustic Version)_

 **RWBY Backstories:**

 _Hero, I (of 2)_

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 ** _Update: 5/30/18_**

 ** _Hey. been a while. sorry about that. just wanted to say that i'm not dead, just busy and hideously lazy. great combo :P_**

 ** _After writing a bunch of the story for Creeping Thorns, I've finally come to the decision that all of my RWBY Backstories are no longer canon within my soon-to-be mainstory. Sorry to disappoint folks, but chances are the changes made between the Backstories and the actual character backstories won't be big, but will be big enough that my decision to out and out say these aren't canon anymore is important._**

 _ **As a consolation prize, the first chapter of Creeping Thorns is coming out later this week. So, I'll see you guys then. Ciao**_

 _So it's been a while... 7ish months if I'm not mistaken?_

 _Heh. Sorry guys. Had this fully written but then I made the noob mistake of not making a copy, so when my original doc expired on the site... well. yeah. Had to write this again. Lost my inspiration for a while. Wrote speeches because I thought maybe I wanted to make something about the 'Great War'. Decided that leaving it mostly vague was fine for the time being, and finally got around to do this._

 _Unfortunately, updates aren't gonna be that frequent. School is back, which takes up a lot of time, the usual. I'll make time...eventually. Meanwhile, have this!_

* * *

" _Do you know why they call it 'Yellow Death', Jaune? Because of its wielder. They were the enemy of the very idea of individualism… but nothing that can feel pain deserved that man's wrath."_

He stands, unbound, beneath the fading sun and the broken moon. The bloody field protrudes carnage and death, black mounds where countless began and ended. Red his blade is tipped, dripping and gleaming from the fresh coat. A cacophony of laughter echoes as pure insanity rings loud and demonic, pouring from his eyes.

His aura, a yellow monster, tinged red and orange by death and hate, burns as brightly as the sun. Lesser beings are burnt to cinders from a glance, their screams drowned out by the sizzling of their eye sockets.

He rears his blade, slowly, pointedly, forcefully, to the sky.

"LET THEM COME! LET THEM BURN! I WILL SLAUGHTER THEM ALL!"

" _His semblance was earned from his arrogance. It was blinding, harmful even, to look at. He considered himself above us all."_

He does not care what he burns, just that his trail is left in ruin and fire. His luminescence turns matter into a state beyond melted, into nothing, perhaps less. Cities burning like flares, fires raging –

" _He burned Atlas to the ground."_

\- nothing survived as the surface of the sun walked through.

" _We were desperate, so we looked the other way. We let genocide occur because it was justifiable. They always had the advantage, with their technology…"_

Standing at the peak of Atlas' highest tower, he watches his domain, previously a sea of silver towers.

He watches it burn, the smoke rising beyond the clouds.

" _History records it as the shift the 'Individualists' needed to win the war. I think, having seen it, I would've prefer to lose. We stooped to a low that made us little better – and in some ways worse – than Grimm. Because we knew what we were doing and didn't try and stop it."_

He does not return to a warm welcome. He is feared, as he considered due, but he did not care. He lived what years he had left outside, content with isolation.

Until he meets Her, in an afternoon clearing bathed in rose petals and light.

" _He was a monster, but it seems even he could fall in love. Some coincidence, like a fairy tale, led to their meeting. I don't pretend to know; I only wonder what she saw that millions of screaming faces did not."_

Life was… peaceful. Nothing like just years ago, he knew. A lifetime ago in his eyes. Could a few years be a lifetime? He thought, holding his infant daughter.

Then She returned, her luminescence brightening the room from the moment she entered. But she did not burn where she trod, unlike him. She healed. She loved. Somehow, even him.

She smiled at him, and his sins suddenly weighed a little less.

" _He was not an Arc at first, but it was him that started the legacy. He married in, becoming one of us. I wasn't born yet, so I can only imagine what their reaction was to the most dangerous psychopath known to man being in love with their daughter."_

But one day her smile fell away, becoming less and less. It was gradual, but the difference between then and now was always noticeable. Something troubled her, and he was going to ask-

And then she was gone, taken. They were both gone.

He'd never gotten the chance to ask. But then it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered anymore, he thought wielding Crocea Mors, intending to stain the blade red once more.

" _Birth Complications. Back then, proper hospitals were Atlas-exclusive. If the birth had happened only a few years later, she might have lived… his daughters were taken into the family, the youngest of whom would later become my mother."_

Without another thought, he took his most trusted weapon and thrust himself upon it.

"… _That is why this is not the weapon of a hero. It is a weapon of genocide. To us, he was a Hero, a burning beacon of Hope in our darkest hour. To anything else, he was a monster. That is why you cannot go, not until you renounce this ridiculous notion of becoming a 'hero'._

"' _Hero' is subjective. Remember that, Jaune. And don't you ever forget."_

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Jaune stopped by again.

He knew Rouge could survive without him visiting for a while, but he wanted to stop by as often as he could. So, he did.

He just hoped the flowers weren't a bit much. The guy at the flower shop had given him this weird look and laughed at something, and whenever someone was laughing in Jaune Arc's proximity, that usually meant it was at him. He soldiered on even with the hurt swelling in the pit in his stomach, not letting his own problems get in the way of keeping Rouge company.

Some colour had returned to her little cheeks, once a constant rose and now a lightish red, though it was so faint it might've been wishful thinking. It was strange, he felt, how her skin had paled but her fiery red hair had darkened. Even so, those shining blue eyes, the eyes of an Arc, never dimmed.

"Hey Jaune." She whispered.

"Hey Rouge." He presented the vase. "Got you some flowers. Hope I got the right kind this time. Usual store was closed, so…"

"Nooo," she whined, low and adorable. "I hope Jacq is okay." Wired to half a dozen machines just to survive, and Rouge was still more worried about someone she barely knew. It was heartbreaking to watch, but Jaune hid it behind a smile.

"So how's everyone doing~?" Rouge sang, sitting up and staring pointedly.

He didn't come here to dump his problems on her, so Jaune talked. He let her know of everything that happened, laughing with her, smiling with her. He could never impress what it was truly like in person, as Vert tried to cook _again_ and got cake mix everywhere and Blanc had to clean it up, but she made Noir do it so naturally she used a vacuum cleaner and made it somehow worse. It was a life lived without her, but by talking through every detail, Jaune was hoping she could feel included. As though life continued with her, and not without her.

It was then, between the happy memories and mirthful atmosphere, that Jaune said something he would still regret a lifetime later.

"Ah, man, it was great. You should've been there, Rouge-" His teeth clacked together so fast he almost bit off his tongue, the mental beration coming almost instantly. _Stupid stupid stupid stupid_ -

Rouge's grip on the sheets tightened until her knuckles became white, her head hunched over and eyes shadowed.

"…I wanna be there, Jauney…" Rouge's eyes dripped crystal tears of isolation. "I… I don't wanna live in this stupid Hospital anymore… I wanna mess up making cake with V… I wanna slack off with Blanc… I wanna read books with Bleu… I don't wanna be alone anymore…" She hiccupped, before a deluge of loneliness and sadness poured from her eyes.

Jaune was lost for words, so hopelessly helplessly it felt like someone was squeezing his lungs. There was not a word he could say to apologize, nor anything to fix her situation.

So when all else failed, Jaune did the only thing he could. He stood up, walked over, and held her against his chest as someone far too young and innocent for what had happened to her cried her eyes out.

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"I want to become a hunter."

Jaune stood as proudly and determinedly as any 12 year old could before his parent.

His grandfather looked up with eyes that had never lost the killing edge of war, rocking chair swaying gently in the evening breeze.

"No." And went back to reading.

Jaune stood straighter. "I'm serious this time!"

His eyes stayed on the page. "You say that every time. It weakens your argument."

"You don't ever believe in me!"

"The weak should not question the strong. I have seen war, Jaune Arc." He removed himself from the book to stare deep into Jaune's eyes, unblinking, deep enough to see something very few could. "You don't have it in you to kill, and you likely never will."

"I wanna help people! I-"

"-wish to become a Hero," he interrupted with ready disdain. He grimaced. "Have I not told you what we have given up just so that we may live a peaceful life? You wish to throw away 2 generations of work just so you may charge headlong into a conflict you'd much, much sooner die pointlessly in than contribute to." Jaune hanged his head and turned away. His grandfather continued.

"What would Rouge think if she heard her brother had died out of sheer arrogance? What would any of them think?" Jaune's fists tightened and his eyes watered.

"…I just wanna help people," he whispered, sounding very small.

"You can. By picking up a tool and helping us farm, as you always have."

He looked up, fists tight at his side and tears bearing down. He choked out a sob, as though in response, and ran away.

Jaune's Grandfather sighed deeply, and thought back, trying to figure out how it'd all turned out this way.

 _[_ _ **LINEBREAK]**_ _[_ _ **LINEBREAK]**_ _[_ _ **LINEBREAK]**_

A short distance away, Jaune collapsed against a tree on a hill. It was testament to how often – and for how long – he came here that he could ease himself into a groove on the tree's side.

The beautiful night sky of southern vale, far enough from any city to let every star shine together, poured soft moonlight on his usual haunt. Face pressed tightly against his knees, he couldn't appreciate it like he normally would whenever he came here.

Sometimes, it was just him and the sky, silent and unmovable. And the occasional distant roars of blood-thirsty Grimm, which was kind of the significant downside to living this far out from any city.

He'd came here after the worst day of his life, using the solitude as an excuse to cry endlessly. Maybe his family – or what's left anyway - knew where he was, maybe they didn't. He just wanted to get away, but even he knew, amidst the gaping, gnawing void of anguish within himself that this wasn't something you could run from.

It _had_ been a pretty damn bad day, he thought in retrospect. Maybe that's all his life would ever be – a bad day, an empty smile, and just him and the night sky and no parents.

He hated the selfishness that came with coming here, because he knew without a single shred of doubt that everything he felt, his sisters had felt. It wasn't just him; _everyone_ had lost their parents that day. He had no right to act special.

After all, as his grandfather kept trying to drill into his thick skull, he wasn't special. Jaune Arc was a farmboy, in the middle of nowhere, with a dying younger sister and not a friend to his name.

He'd been so caught up it took him a moment to realize someone's hand was on his shoulder, but once he looked over, he relaxed and muttered "hi."

Bleu sat next to him, ever-present book held lazily open by a thumb. Her glasses sparkled in the moonlight, like shimmering water, and she affectionately rubbed his shoulder. He had no doubt she'd heard him, considering her excellent hearing – a feature a number of Jaune's sisters had used to prank their grandfather numerous times.

She didn't say anything, though he suspected if she wasn't mute that'd still be the case. She'd always been quiet, peaceful, well-meant and smiling ever so faintly. Technically in fact, this was her spot, but he'd taken such a liking to it he'd practically declared it as Jaune-land. She didn't seem to mind, though Jaune was sure he could ask her to set fire to it as long as it made him happy and she'd just nod politely.

Despite being perfectly fine with the silence, Jaune felt strangely compelled to break it.

"So… what's the book? Is it good?" She nodded. "New favourite?" She pensively nodded again. "Huh… I thought Ninjas of Love was your fa-"

Face red enough to be a tomato, Bleu belted Jaune in the face with the scorn Hell certainly didn't hath. Groaning, Jaune sat back up, seeing adorable little birdies flying around his head in circles.

"Okay," he breathed, "deserved that. Sorry Bleu, I was just-" Bleu's fist was already raised tentatively, proving again that sometimes the quietest had the most to hide. Jaune verbally backpedaled. "I-uh m-mean… never mind." Her fist lowered slowly, Jaune exhaled in audible relief, and silence reigned again.

It was so peaceful that Jaune almost fell asleep, only the sudden falling sensation of his head jostling him awake.

"Hb-bluh…" he yawned gracefully, casting a glance at Bleu. She was still there, though she was making to leave.

"H-Hey." He breathed out, still not quite all together. Bleu looked back, eyebrow raised.

"Do you…" He took a moment to gather his courage. "Do you… think I'm… not weak?" He almost squeaked.

Bleu blinked in surprise, for all her poise still caught completely off-guard and showing it. After a moment's consideration, she walked back over, sat down, and scooted closer, pressing right against him.

Jaune didn't so much as breathe.

 _Poke_. A single digit, her index finger, poked him right in the nose, shattering the tension completely. Jaune relaxed, though disappointed with lacking an answer. _Maybe I don't wanna hear it, though…_

That 'said', Bleu stood up, and walked into the night.

Jaune watched her go, looking away and sighing when she was out of earshot – her earshot, that is.

"Not even worth giving a response, huh? Ouch, Bleu. Don't even talk and you-" It was only as Jaune leaned back against the tree that he noticed the item attached to his back.

"…Huh?" He reached back at an awkward angle. After a long moment of tugging, he pulled it off, the item pasted on with a strip of duct tape. It was a piece of paper with elegant writing adorning the face.

"How'd this get here?"

Shrugging and muttering " _typical Bleu_ " under his breath, he read her note.

 _Jaune,_

 _I can't believe that's a question. After everything that's happened, losing mom and dad, Rouge getting sick… you still smile. You can laugh._

 _You're the strongest person I know._

 _(also, don't forget your chores. Grandad wanted me to remind you in case you forgot again)_

Jaune groaned in agony. _Way to ruin the moment, Bleu._ A smile suddenly found its way onto his face. _The sentiment is nice though._

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Later that night, Jaune opened his eyes, blinked, and realized he had no idea where he was.

Just to make sure he wasn't asleep, he pinched his cheek, and the short spark of pain alerted him to the fact he wasn't.

"Well, okay then…" He whispered to nobody in particular.

It was underground, he felt it was safe to assume. The air felt slightly damp, and the walls and ceiling were made of dirt, so… didn't take a genius.

Looking one way, all he saw were spread out torches and eventual darkness. _Oh that's not creepy at all_. On the other hallway, a ladder leading… well, up. It might not lead directly to the surface, but go far enough _up_ and he'd reach there eventually.

At first he felt the choice was obvious. "Yeah, see ya creepy hallway… I'm just gonna pass on this one. Don't care at all where you lead." Mounting the ladder and climbing, Jaune cast one look back.

 _Just for reference,_ he told himself, even when he kept looking far longer than was necessary. "Nope. Not at all... not... at all..." He breathed. Eventually, he managed to tear his head away, but now his limbs felt heavy and useless.

Jaune hanged his head and sighed, climbing back down the later. _I'm gonna get myself killed. Calling it._

The hallway wasn't long, but it was damn creepy. The torches cast a shockingly little amount of light, because for some reason every couple of steps another set of torches came into view, when their light _should've_ illuminated significantly further.

Something about that rubbed him the wrong way, but when he was already so far down, it made even less sense to just turn around. Also, it was kind of coward-y, and Jaune already had a lifetime of that thank you.

Finally, he was there, wherever 'there' was.

The room actually had a door – had being the keyword, because it fell over the moment he nudged it – and rusty metal walls, like whatever was inside was worth protecting about 3 decades ago.

 _Or keeping in_ , said the part of every person's mind that made things worse.

Honestly, everything he'd thought about running being cowardly seemed kind of moot now that he knew there was nothing-

And then he saw it.

It was deceptively simple, and out of its sheath, laid diagonally on a stone slab which the other half of it rested against. But for all its simplicity, it held an air of importance that even most sentient objects lacked.

It called to him, and without hesitation Jaune Arc answered, compelled by something beyond his reasoning.

He had only a moment of confusion and _called it_ before his hand closed on the hilt of Crocea Mors and his world erupted in white.

 _[_ _ **LINEBREAK]**_ _[_ _ **LINEBREAK]**_ _[_ _ **LINEBREAK]**_

For the second time in as many minutes, Jaune had no idea where he was.

On his back this time and staring at a ceiling, he debated the merits of getting up if he was just gonna get… teleported or whatever again. He couldn't even imagine what made him get all grabby with the ancient blade his grandfather had warned him about, saying all kinds of 'do-not-touch-or-else-meaning-die' threats over the years. It's not that he was stupid enough not to recognize it – Jaune just didn't even know where it _was_. As far as he knew, his grandfather had walked 20 miles in a random direction, dug a hole, dropped Crocea Mors in it and left it for the Grimm to chew on.

But somehow, without even the slightest clue, he'd woken up in front of it. And just as quickly, he'd woken up here.

 _You know, I really would take a beating from Lanna* and his cronies over being this confused. At least that I know how to deal with._

Sighing, Jaune decided he might as well get this over with.

The cabin, or what looked extremely similar to one, was disturbingly similar to his own home, but many things were off – he didn't recognize the layout, or the choice in wallpaper. Seriously, that beige? Totally last century…

…Not that he knew about the finer points of home Décor. Nope. Jaune Arc didn't even know what you were talking about.

If he had to describe it in one word, it might've been 'impersonal', if he knew what the word was anyway. There weren't any photos, or vases, or something to show that someone lived here. In fact, it was very possible this place was merely abandoned.

It was of course, as most things occur in life, as Jaune was wondered the house aimlessly that he found the body.

On its knees and hunched over, Jaune had first thought it was doing some kind of prayer. When he stepped closer however, he noticed the gleam of metal protruding from its back and all at once the body vomited blood and fell onto its side, blood and viscera and guts spewing from its gutted midsection.

Jaune, having never seen many awful things but nothing quite so shocking, hurried to a corner and threw up in it.

The last of his stomach contents expunged, Jaune staggered back, only then noticing something about himself. He was transparent.

… _Am I dead? Oh man I so called it. I hate it when I call it, because_ I _never call it and why can't I breathe is it possible to die if you're a ghost WHAT IS HA-_

"Lora."

Somehow, the single, muttered word from the corpse – was it a corpse if it was still clinging to life? – was able to distract Jaune from his chaotic thoughts. He turned, now able to see the corpse's blank express. As though the sword in his stomach was completely irrelevant, so far gone into his own mind he felt nothing.

"I…I'm sorry." He gurgled, and with utterly morbid fascination, Jaune wondered what he would say next. "A-All this power… and I couldn't save… anyone…"

On closer inspection, Jaune noted the man had blonde hair… and shining blue eyes. The unmistakable blue eyes of an Arc.

"Please… I don't know if you can hear me… Crocea Mors." With a start Jaune realized the dying man was talking to the very blade in his gut. "Protect them. Whatever it takes…" He whispered.

Jaune spent several minutes in silent wonder before he realized the man had died, expression and eyes as blank in death as they were in life.

He stepped back, completely numb, legs so useless he fell on his backside. At some point during the man's last words, Jaune had started crying.

 _Oh Dust…_

He hadn't seen something that violent and tragic since… since his parents had died.

Protecting him.

Was that all there was to Death? Tragedy, violence… blood? He hated it as much as any traumatized 12 year old could, so utterly horrified he could only cry and cry.

After receiving such a… fresh reminder, maybe he could see where his Grandfather was coming from. Jaune didn't know if he could stomach seeing something like this ever again. If he did… he might just go insane.

"…Who are you?"

Jaune blinked through his haze of tears. Slowly, he looked behind himself.

The corpse was standing up again. This time, however, he was transparent. But that didn't make any sense, because the corpse was still _in front of him-_

"I will not ask again." The pale figure said, with a voice that did not need to be raised to be intimidating. "Who are you?"

Stunned and confused and still emotional, Jaune mumbled his name.

The figure blinked in apparent surprise.

"You… have the same name as I."

Now Jaune was even more confused.

"Wha…? You're Jaune too? Oh man. I thought it was only my parents that were bad at naming their kids, but you're 'Yellow' too."

For a long moment, the figure was silent, blinking, mouth opened slightly.

And then he was laughing, endlessly and uproariously, as though he hadn't in decades.

"Of all the things to greet a monster with… I have yet to be met with derision for my name. You, boy, are something else entirely." He smiled, a motion he seemed vaguely… unused too.

"You don't look like a monster." Jaune wondered if confusion could reach a limit, because it hadn't yet and his head was beginning to swim, the juxtaposition of traumatizing and comedic proving to be a little too much for his young mind to handle.

Now the figure's confusion was even more readily apparent. "You… don't know who I am?"

Jaune shrugged and smiled cheekily. "Just that you had parents as bad as mine."

"I… I see." A faintly troubled look crossed his face, before the figure regained his composure. "I suppose it's time for you go then."

In another life, Jaune may have realized how ridiculous he sounded. "But I just got here!"

"And you have already witnessed one of the more egregious memories of my life. Unless you enjoy trauma, I'd recommend leaving."

Jaune blinked before blanching hard. "Wait… this was… so you're… does that mean I'm-?"

The figure silenced the boy with an unyielding look. "No, you are not dead. I am. I have been for… what I'd imagine is almost a century now, give or take 2 decades. It becomes hard to tell time when trapped within one's own sword, endlessly reliving their memories."

After a silence that lasted more than long enough for the figure to admit he was kidding, Jaune promptly overcame his stupefied expression with a quiet "whoa."

Because… well… _whoa_ indeed.

"So… so you fought in the war? The Great War?"

An extraordinarily complex amalgamation of emotions flew across his eyes. Then, he was calm. "Yes, yes I did."

Jaune's smile could've powered a suburb. "I-I-" Jaune swallowed thickly, a thousand questions vying for dominance in his mind.

In a turn of events almost utterly random, Jaune had gone from sleeping soundly to pouring endless questions at a stranger he barely knew. Sometimes the figure was pensive, and responded calmly. At times, it was all he could do keep up with the absurd quantity of words spewed his way.

Jaune remained with the blade, asking the original wielder about his life, his society, and his opinion.

It was the first contact Joune Arc had in almost a century, for which he was grateful. However, that gratitude began to wear thinner and thinner as the hours stretched on, and he contemplated when Jaune's vocal cords would give.

Then he realized they couldn't, not in here, and with a motion born of extremely unbecoming fear Hell himself held up his hands and said "that's enough for now. We will talk later. Goodbye, Jaune of Arc."

Jaune's mouth was caught halfway between "wait-" and "later-" when his vision erupted in white once more.

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"-waitbutIhavesomanyquestionsokaygoodbye-"

He was no longer inside the blade.

"DARNIT! I… I had…"

Jaune's eyes drooped closed, exhaustion overwhelming him almost instantly. Something about being inside the sword drained his energy like nothing else.

"Me sleepy… night other-Joune…"

He collapsed, falling quickly into dreams of where he'd never been, and those he'd never met.

 _[_ _ **LINEBREAK]**_ _[_ _ **LINEBREAK]**_ _[_ _ **LINEBREAK]**_

* * *

 _So part of my Headcanon for RWBY is that Jaune's great-great-grandfather was Pyrrha's inspiration growing up, and while I liked the idea (because full circle ftw) I had this idea while browsing Imgur. (which is sort of the adorable younger brother to bro-and-sis 4chan-and-Tumblr while distantly related to its weird Cousin Reddit)_

 ** _There is a TL;DR at the end, but +10 points to Gryffindor for every person that makes it through._**

 _Basically, I found some gifs showcasing Adolf "Jews are not my Spirit Animal" Hitler doing something you might not expect. Flirting._

 _And so there was this big comment chain about how History is sometimes interpretable, and how even Hitler could act human sometimes... that sort of thing._

 _So it got me thinking, and it made me realize something. (+10 points to Gryffindor to the cheeky asshole who just remarked to himself 'yeah, that I don't effing care!')_

 _What if we never thought there was another side to the story? The thing that becomes integral to all 'if Hitler won' style theories - the suppression of outside influences and messages. Quite simply, what if we were only told one story? How would that reflect our impression of history? (+10 points to Gryffindor to the cheeky asshole who just said 'badly, I'd imagine')_

 _While the consequences and effects of this on our society are... well... I'd need a lot more than a couple hundred words to convey, the effects on the RWBY-verse are actually more apparent than you think._

 _Ozpin says the Great War 'was ultimately about individualism'. Which, yes, is an interpretation. But there's wiggle room in that interpretation - some could say that it was more about a clash of ideologies, as I dun did. Our understanding of the Great War is based only on what we're told and can learn. We, and the cast, will likely never learn the 'full' story, though some things may be clarified and become plot points etc... but the Great War could've been because Adam Mothertrucking Jensen went for Chicken Wings at Space McDonalds, realize how hard he'd fucked up and blew up one of the Wings of the Citadel for the travesty. We dunno. Just that it happened._

 _Which brings me to 'Joune Arc.' One part amazing wordplay, if I do say so myself, and B) what I was getting at when I was talking about 'interpretation'._

 _The entire time, everything you hear about him reflects pretty much Satan-Hitler but with Super Saiyan-esq powers. You might've kept thinking that too, except then Jaune meets him and... well... he's not actually that psychopathic. Maybe a little intimidating, but if I wasn't so obvious that it was him you might think they were different people._

 _To the people of Atlas, he is a monster beyond words. To the rest of the world, he is only 'the man who won us the war'. In canon, Jaune only knows and looks up to his great-great-grandfather as a War Hero. In here, he soon finds out Joune Arc was a War Criminal. And even then, that's not the whole truth._

 _TL;DR: I was trying to make a point about how history and interpretations but you only proved that people are lazy. +10 points to Slytherin if you skipped here.  
(But maybe that's too mean so basically all I'm saying is this: the only story not told about Joune Arc is his own. Listen out for it)_

 _See ya later, Space Cowboy_

 ** _REEEEVIEWWWWW... please. Part incoming... soonish._**

 _*Laana is from a Native-American Language called 'Alabama' (+10 to whatever to the cheeky asshole who, once again, makes a snarky remark by saying 'WOW, never heard that one before') meaning either Yellow or Brown. I'm not that cultured, I used Google like a normal person, thank you._


	2. Hero, II: The Tragic Monster

_Recommended listening: Not Strong Enough - Apocalyptica_

 **RWBY Backstories:**

 _Hero, II (2 of ?)_

* * *

 _Updated this faster than I thought I would. Might be another chapter after this one. I dunno. See you then!_

* * *

"… _If I have learned anything from this war, it is not the depth of human cruelty, though that is a truly deep pit, nor is it the sheer ingenuity we possess at finding more and more efficient methods of killing each other. I have learned something somehow even more terrifying._

" _It is how far off course a person can go before they realize they've been carried astray, how distant they can become from their own principles. It is how long the road of good intentions lasts, and how utterly convincing it can be, every step of the way. Maybe where you started was well-meant and honorable, but at some step along the road, what you start doing becomes unforgivable…"_

 _-Excerpt from 'the Individualist Address', a speech given following the conclusion of the Great War_

* * *

"You missed morning chores, Jaune."

 _Someone kill me. It doesn't have to be painless, just do it right now._

Violet's glare deepened. "You know what means."

 _Cutting it close._

"Do it. Or I'll make you." He knew full well she held every intention.

Sighing in unabashed disgrace, and after gathering the rest of his shattered pride, Jaune abruptly erupted into song and dance.

What was sang needs not be repeated – rest assured, it was demeaning, woefully out-of-tune and very grammatically inaccurate. His pride in shambles, and Violet only just coming down from her laughing fit, Jaune finished his dance.

She clapped approvingly. "Bravo, Fortissimo! …Jaune-o." And handed him the bucket.

"Now go clean the stable."

Jaune groaned.

 _[_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _] [_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _][_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _]_

All in all, Jaune considered, for having vanished from his bed in the middle of the night, talked with his long-dead ancestor, slept in way past when he should've woken up, and only 20 minutes ago found his way home, things could've been worse.

Even though Violet was rather fond of humiliating him, considering it a 'big sister's job', she was still _significantly more_ lenient than their Grandfather. Last time his punishment had been left to the Faunus Rebellion veteran, Jaune couldn't stand without an overwhelming feeling of nausea for three days.

(To put the theories to rest, Jaune had to ride a Tractor designed to autonomously take care of entire hectares of farming land. Since then, just the thought of mechanized transport made him Dizzy, and he imagined it would for years to come.)

He'd take temporary embarrassment over another potentially traumatizing incident, 7 out of 7 days of the week.

Anyway, Jaune mused, it wasn't really his punishment that he was so preoccupied with.

It was the enormity of last night's events.

Only now, in retrospect, that the veil of confusion was being lifted did he even begin to understand what happened. Everything started fitting together, forming a proper sequence of events. Except for one thing.

How'd he get there in the first place?

He could chalk up the second 'teleport'-thing to… a change in his state of consciousness, or something. He'd clearly not been physically within Crocea Mors, which meant he'd done something right out of a fantasy novel. His mind, maybe his soul, went inside the blade, which was a thought as cool as it was terrifying. What did that do to his body? What if it was dangerous? What if the exhaustion he felt afterwards wasn't just from expending energy, but a sign of something much, much worse?

And still. Aside from, well, sleepwalking there, Jaune had no real idea how he'd gotten there.

He'd asked so many questions last night, but it was with a dull feeling of embarrassment that he realized he'd been asking the wrong ones. Or maybe even the other 'Jaune' didn't know. How _would_ he know? Could he see out of the blade? Could he affect anything outside the blade?

It was a thought that immediately halted all of Jaune's efforts, the cleaning bucket almost falling from his clenched hands.

…Had… had the other 'Jaune' made him come there?

When he first saw Crocea Mors, something utterly foreign and incomprehensible compelled him closer, _forced_ him to approach the ancient weapon. A desire like nothing else, only describable as _need_ and _power_ and _duty_ worked his limbs like puppet strings. And so he picked up Crocea Mors of someone else's accord.

Of course, the thought was unprovable. But it wasn't baseless, and right now, Jaune felt something else compel him to seek out Crocea Mors.

Answers. The ones he knew he wouldn't be able to find without going back.

 _[_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _] [_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _][_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _]_

It took quote a bit longer than it should, mainly because Jaune had forgotten to leave a trail (or maybe that was smart, because somebody might've seen it, though this part of the forest was pretty deserted/Grimm-infested) but before the sun had set and half an hour after his evening chores were done, Jaune Arc descended the ladder leading to Crocea Mors.

In all honesty, he wasn't sure how exactly he'd managed to find his way back. Vale had an odd sense of symmetry to a lot of its forests, making travel through them without intricate knowledge of the landscape/landmarks difficult. He was far less suicidal than Blanc though, who traversed these woods _constantly_ , but she hadn't told a story about discovering an ancient sword and he knew she wouldn't keep anything like that secret. The problem with Blanc was keeping _anything_ secret…

Face flushed at the memory, and momentarily grateful for the distraction, Jaune steeled himself and walked through the underground Hallway.

It was still there, resting on the stone slab. Not like it get up and walk away, but Jaune was willing to believe anything at this point.

Body tensed and on edge, Jaune took a single step inside the rusting metal room, and waited to be pulled in.

And waited. And waited. And waited.

Minutes passed. Jaune opened his eyes – _when did I close them? Am I really that weak?_ – and found himself exactly where he was before, completely unmoved.

For some reason, Crocea Mors wasn't pulling him in.

 _So now that I want answers, it doesn't work. Typical Jaune Arc luck at work._

Refusing to take this lying down, Jaune strode up of his own volition. His movements were hesitate, and he flinched at the beginning of a noise several times, but eventually he steadied his breathing, _just breathe, just breathe_ , _it's just a sword your ancestor used to kill himself 75 years ago_ and reached out.

Crocea Mors fit into his hand as though he was born to wield it, and his world erupted in white.

 _[_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _] [_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _][_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _]_

As seemed to be customary, he found himself in the Cabin.

Nothing had changed since he was last here, with the exception of his ancestor's corpse no longer being there, which was something he felt immense gratitude for. He tried calling out for his ancestor, but after hearing nothing, he quickly realized how little of a plan he actually had. In that, he didn't actually have one at all.

 _If he's not here… where could he be?_

He said something about 'reliving his memories', and if this was his last one, it was possible that it meant he was in another part of the blade, watching a different memory, like someone watching a movie.

Over and over and over and over again for 75 odd years. _How come I didn't think that maybe he's gone crazy? He didn't seem crazy, but he did talk weird… it must've been how people talked 75 years ago. Like they did in Kings of the Keys…_

He snorted immaturely. _Heh. "Begone, foul Grimmlaik, lord of Decay! Leave the dead in peace!"_

Until he realized he'd said that aloud. He blushed brightly, and straightened. "Please let no one have seen that…." He could almost feel the faint echoes of 'neeerd!' though that might have been his imagination... maybe.

Wishing to escape the premises as soon as possible, he looked for a way out. _Maybe it's like that one book with hallways full of doors with rooms for each memory. Or maybe there's something hidden around here that leads to the next memory…_

As he was contemplating this, he opened the front door, stepped through, found the outside world consisted of a white void, looked down at the empty air he was standing on, and promptly fell. He screamed all the while.

"I SHOULD'VE PAID MORE ATTENTION to where I was goiiinnggg…" He vanished into the white.

 _[_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _] [_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _][_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _]_

All at once, colour returned for the falling Jaune.

The void he'd just fallen through turned to blue sky, and to his sides he could see the memorizing rainbow forests of spring-time Vale.

Rushing up to meet him was the unmistakable green grass of mother nature.

Caught in complete disarray, and too panicked to do much else, Jaune held his arms in front of his face and prayed as the sound of rustling wind was brought to a swift close.

But he did not splatter into a red Jaune-y mess.

"You stepped through the door without bothering to look, didn't you?"

Jaune slowly cracked his eyes open, and once they were open a sliver, they burst open. "Other Jaune! You..." He looked down, to the ground he was not touching. "You caught me."

'Other Jaune' sighed. "That I suppose constitutes a yes... yes, I saved you from peril, Jaune of Arc. Would you have preferred I let death have its way?"

Jaune's eyes remained wide. "Wait... so I really _can_ die again."

Joune Arc rolled his eyes in dismissive annoyance. "My attempts at humour are lost on you, it would seem. Once again, you are not dead, and even then Death has no claim here." He took a moment to rub his forehead and sigh. "But that is distracting myself from the point. Why, Jaune of Arc, are you back?"

Jaune's confusion melted into remembrance, and with a quick scuffle he managed to stand on his own.

"I want to know something."

Joune Arc raised his brow. "That being?"

Jaune swallowed thickly. "Did... did you... bring me here? The first time I came here? Because I woke up in this strange tunnel and-"

Of all the things Jaune expected his ancestor to do, it was certainly not to start laughing. His expression reflected this. "That would not be my doing, but Crocea Mors'."

 _Okay, my life has officially gone crazy._ "The _sword_ brought me here?"

"I have little doubt, with what you described. Long ago, when I wielded Crocea Mors, I was once forced to abandon it in the heat of battle. After I had won, I found my way to it in a manner that defies explanation. The battle had reshaped the landscape beyond recognition, and I had no recollection of my exact surroundings when it fell from my hands... there is no other explanation. Crocea Mors guided me to its handle."

His explanation bore too many similarities to Jaune's own experience for him to be lying, and that thought thrust Jaune ever deeper into confused fear. "How can... how can a weapon be alive?"

"Alive is the wrong term," Joune stated. "'Sentient' is more accurate. I imagine it is due to prolonged exposure to 'Aura', given that Aura is what permits human beings to live. It is the very essence of life, and it would make sense then that imbuing it into something gives it some measure of awareness. As appears to be the case with Crocea Mors."

Jaune was silent for a long moment. "...I've never used Crocea Mors. How come-"

"But you have." Joune pointed out. "You've held it. It would seem that quite literally, even the Sword itself incites to violence." Vaguely, Jaune realised that his question still hadn't been answered.

Joune levied an extraordinarily important look at his descendent. "Crocea Mors has chosen a new wielder after three-quarters of a century of silence. It wishes to again be an instrument of war. If you have any aspirations to be a 'Hero', I believe this fulfils it succinctly."

Jaune found himself completely out of breath. "But..." he squeezed from lungs that refused to take breath. "I..."

"But what, boy?" Joune asked.

But what indeed.

After all, _this was it_. Jaune's chance to be a 'Hero'; to fight Grimm; to be the shining knight in armour and save people; to actually, really, genuinely help in the way working the land never possibly could. Everything he'd imagined in his wildest dreams, suddenly presented to him. Except...

Despite the almost nauseatingly rapid series of events that had transpired in only 2 days, Jaune had never lost sight of what his grandfather had told him time and again. He wasn't cut out to fight, and after seeing his ancestor's death, he'd completely agreed. He changed his opinion at the first sign of adversity, and thinking back, no matter how convincing it was to do so at the time, it was also unavoidably wrong. Even if he fell flat on his face, and died after his first fight with a Grimm, let it be said Jaune Arc never showed his back to his enemy. An Arc never just 'looked away'.

But...

He had no heroic qualities. When he was pushed around, he let it happen. When he was sad, he never sucked it up. And when someone he loved was in danger...

 _Screams and roars and the unmistakable sound of tearing flesh as they shouted "JAUNE!_ RUN _!"_ -

...he could do nothing.

Thoughts of Rouge filled his mind. And he wondered what kind of Hero he was if he couldn't even save his little sister.

And yet,

 _"You're the strongest person I know_."

People believed in him, even if it was only Bleu. So maybe that meant he wasn't a Hero... maybe all it meant was that he was the little Farmboy that could.

He finally answered Joune's question.

"...But I'm not worthy. I... I'm not a hero." He whispered on his knees to the dirt, eyes tightly closed.

Joune smiled. "Good. Because neither am I." Jaune started and looked up in apparent, open surprise. "Crocea Mors would not choose an idealistic fool. It would only choose someone who recognizes the true purpose of a blade. Maybe you are not made to be a hero." He levied a hand, palm up, and Jaune stared at it in blatant wonder.

"But I can transform you into something better."

Jaune stared at the outstretched hand, dozens of thoughts flying through his head.

With only a moment more of contemplation, he accepted the gesture and set himself on a path he would walk for the rest of his life.

( **Cue training montage!... or not** )

 _[_ ** _LINEBREAK_** _] [_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _][_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _]_

"Of all the steps taken to becoming strong, unlocking your Aura is the most fundamental." Joune Arc lectured, arms held behind his back and feet spread. Opposite of him, Jaune Arc stood in rapt attention.

The clearing, part of a memory Jaune was told apparently came from his ancestor's childhood, now served as a pseudo-training ground. Everything here was indestructible, according to his ancestor, and thus meant damage would never be an issue. It was the best option for helping Jaune wield Crocea Mors available.

"Unlocking aura can be done in multiple ways - the rarest of which is self-activation, in which an individual is in enough danger that their Aura activates autonomously, granting them power. The significantly more common method is using an Aura activation phrase. It requires first that an Aura-user establishes contact with the Aura within the non-Aura user, and whatever words come to mind that are not your own, you must speak." Joune continued on. Jaune's head began to list. "There is a problem, however. When I attempted to locate your Aura earlier, I was unsuccessful. It appears our atypical surroundings does not permit our typical scenario. Therefore," his arms unfurled and his stance tightened. "I will have to train you in here with the hopes that you may unlock it out there." He lowered himself to the ground, as though bracing for an attack.

"I will hold back, but rest assured, I will not be kind." He disappeared only to reappear with a fist levied at Jaune's face - who jumped back and tripped over Joune's outstretched leg. "My patience is limited for the inattentive. You will _listen_ when I speak, or Crocea Mors' wishes or not, I will not train you. Is that understood?"

Jaune, groaning as he held his aching head, blinked away the last of his dreariness. He looked into the fire brewing in his teacher's eyes and nodded shakily.

"Good. Stand up." And thus began Jaune's training in earnest.

 _[_ ** _LINEBREAK_** _] [_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _][_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _]_

It took time for Jaune's training to show, given that he was only exerting his mind at first, but when it did, it showed in dividends. His teacher's almost limitless speed improved his reflexes, his unrelenting nature had improved his pain tolerance... although Jaune still had a lifetime of training to perfect himself, in only a couple weeks, he'd certainly stepped up to the challenge. He'd had to take some part of the training into his own hands, following through the motions his teacher had taught him for his fighting style outside of Crocea Mors, though Jaune didn't even know what that was until Joune told him.

It inexplicably fit in a way Jaune found nothing short of eerie. Even then however, a proper fighting style was developed over a lifetime of experience, purposefully fitted to one's own strengths and weaknesses.

He'd managed to find time after the last of his sister's fell asleep and just before he was expected to wake up to slip out, train all night with his ancestor while his body rested (which was convenient beyond belief) and then, following the afternoon chores, he'd find somewhere secluded and work on the physical motions. The tunnel where Crocea Mors laid was his only option at first, but as he grew more confident (well, he hadn't been caught _yet_ ) in his ability to sneak past his grandfather he started training in the much less limiting forest above, just waiting until his teacher gave the go ahead on training _with_ Crocea Mors.

Sometimes, while Jaune trained, he'd suddenly be reminded of what his life had been like only a few weeks before. He'd smile, almost imperceptibly, ecstatic as only true progress allowed, and continued on.

He couldn't help but occasionally think he was forgetting something, a thought that hit him from time to time, but he'd always dismissed it as paranoia, though it'd been hard at first, like suppressing a bad habit. He always felt on edge, thinking someone was going to catch him, but as nothing continued to happen, Jaune's worry lessened considerably.

Still. Jaune Arc wouldn't be Jaune Arc unless he always had a nagging sensation about something.

Done for today, Jaune exhaled deeply, slumping back against a tree and sliding down. He knew in a couple hours he'd be seeing his teacher again, but he decided to relax for a moment, and let the peacefulness wash over him.

 _[_ ** _LINEBREAK_** _] [_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _][_ _ **LINEBREAK** ]_

"That's all for today." Jaune exhaled exhaustedly and let his ragged stance slump, falling to his back with a small groan. Joune continued. "Your defense is improving, but you lack the initiative to fully capitalize on openings. There were 13 opportunities to improve your positioning by reversing the momentum, yet you only took a paltry 3."

Jaune turned his head to the side, muttering in apology.

"Still. For 3 months of training, you are... passable." Jaune made a forceful, genuine effort to sit up and look at his teacher. He failed. "But I imagine that is not your objective, if you truly wish to survive on the battlefield."

"How much... longer?" Jaune groaned.

"That is an answer I cannot give you, Jaune of Arc." Jaune still didn't know why his teacher called him that - he'd barely managed to get a vague explanation of 'proper etiquette' before his teacher had moved on. "True power does not come easy. You will very easily spend a lifetime obtaining it, and take only a moment to lose it." Jaune flinched, the memory of his mentor's suicide playing out in his head. Even now, though he'd yet to tell even his ancestor about it, it gave him nightmares. It didn't help that Joune looked irreparably similar to himself, making it easier for the mind to mix and match and have Jaune kill himself after failing everyone.

The simple thought of failure scared him, somehow even more than death itself did. He honestly wondered how Joune had held up under the pressure of the entirety of Humanity's future weighing down on him.

A foot crashed into his face with the force of pure indignation, his teacher calling out as Jaune flew back " _never_ pause in the face of danger!"

Jaune, upside down and pressed into a tree, groaned in acknowledgement.

 **Several Minutes Later**

"Hey, um, Joune..." After peeling his face off the tree, and moments before his teacher would dismiss him, Jaune spoke up.

"What troubles you?"

He paused, not entirely sure how to ask this without being utterly insensitive. "Uh... have you ever tried to um..."

"Move on?" His teacher guessed and Jaune nodded, attempting to parch a dry throat with a gulp. At that, his teacher looked away, the unmistakable, pensive expression of contemplation adorning his face.

"...Every time I am here to train you, Jaune of Arc," he began after a long silence, "I have to experience every memory I possess. The only direction I am able to move is forward, and thus I am here after seeing my older sister, who took care of me after the death of our parents, losing her, beginning my training, the war, my death... the uncountable experiences anyone may have, from the benign to the life-changing. I feel it makes a wonderful refresher course, reminding me of the sheer variety Remnant has in terms of fighting styles and individuals." He smiled faintly. "But I am also granted the privilege of seeing the woman I loved again, something many men have died to do." Jaune listened closely enough to blot out his own breathing, and after a moment, Joune Arc started again.

"I cannot begin to speak of her justly, Jaune of Arc... her breath was the spring wind, warm and velvet, and every gentle touch of her being made my past fade completely. With her, I could scarcely remember to breath. I... was at total peace, only us and our daughter and the beauty of nature." He looked into Jaune's eyes. "Losing her was the sole reason I killed myself, I think, looking on with proper distance and judgment. I justified it with other reasons, but I believe that despite everything I had ever felt - every life I stole, every family I shattered, all the cities I burned - losing her was inconceivably worse, somehow." He turned away, and soft drips of moisture spilled onto the grass at Joune's feet. "But I would not wish it away. No matter the pain, or the regret, I would not - and never will - deny what I felt. Because ultimately nothing can take from me those memories of the time we spent together. It is worth Death, and agony, and misery, a thousand times over."

Jaune Arc was speechless.

"...I suppose that makes me sound like an old heartbroken fool," turning back, Joune made no attempt to conceal nor to wipe away his tears. "My story is no different than any other tragedy... but if there is anything I want to impress on you, Jaune, it is what I learned while dying."

He stared, deeper and harder than ever before, into Jaune's unblinking eyes. "No matter how strong you are, you're only human in the end." Perhaps it was the emotional aspect of the moment, or the deepness of his stare - nonetheless, Jaune Arc would never forget his teacher's words.

Then, there was silence. Jaune was struck quiet from how much his teacher had opened up, and that very same man did not feel inclined to break the silence with words. It very well could've stretched out into eternity.

Joune Arc finally breathed out "to answer your question... I can't, nor won't, move on. I consider it my duty now to train you, to ensure you do not suffer like I did. Notwithstanding even that, I have been unable to figure out how to leave Crocea Mors." He raised a solemn hand. "We will resume tomorrow.

"Goodbye, Jaune."

And then he was gone, leaving his teacher alone in the memory of when his sister abandoned him.

 _[_ ** _LINEBREAK_** _] [_ _ **LINEBREAK**_ _][_ _ **LINEBREAK** ]_

* * *

 _For the record, I did consider quoting Avatar: TLA but felt like 'nah, that's a bit mainstream.' and promptly adjusted my fedora beret hybrid and my fingerless gloves to write this AN._

 _I think it's also worth noting that I had no idea how long this story would go for. I actually thought this would be a one-shot before I wrote the first chapter... yeah. That didn't quite hit the mark._

 ** _Review and not get meme spammed today!_**


	3. Hero, III: The Returned Sister

_Recommended Listening: Undone by FFH_

 **RWBY Backstories:**

 _Hero, III (3 of snuffleupagus)_

 _Greetings ladies and gentlemen of the RWBY fanfiction community!_

 _...Holy shit how has it been 3 months!? Oh... uh... ahem..._

 _Man, been a while since I've said that. Ah, well. Still don't know when this thing is going to end. Maybe this chapter, MAYBE NEVERRRrrr... which is bad for me, because I wanna get back to ASOLIE. Though I might be doing the next RWBY Backstories instead of ASOLIE. We only a few more to go._

 _Took some time while I had it to write some more Blue Exorcist fanfiction. It's a 'Rin keeps a Diary, goes to Gehenna' style story, but it's my attempt to make it worth reading. Rin becomes a Demon-eater, Kurikara talks, that sort of thing. It's been a long time coming, (2+ years) but I've gotten 100,000 words for it so I haven't been completely lazy._

 _Should I post it? Review or PM and let me know what you think._

 _We now get back to our regularly scheduled program!_

* * *

 ** _Sunfire._**

 _It is the product of temperatures and forces unfathomable, smelting raw elements to a pure molten state and then even less. It is the very wrath of Gods, incinerating those who earn their ire. Mortal fire is but a pale expression of light in the face of Sunfire, which burns so bright and hot gazing upon it is death itself. The weak melt, and only the strongest can endure, but never forever._

 _Indeed -_ _Lightning may strike a man, and a mountain may crush a village, but only unleashed Sunfire may annihilate a nation._

 _There has only ever been one master of Sunfire in recorded history, and even in legends there is barely any word of another. His conviction, his wrath, transmuted into Sunfire at the behest of his Aura. His semblance, the blinding beacon of hope that extinguished the lives of those who saw it, only made his luminescence all the deadlier._

 _Joune Arc. At one point, people spoke of him as Hell itself, carrying with him the eternal smell of Brimstone and ash. No matter the garishness of the tale, there has never been a truly exaggerated story about his deeds. Without him, Humanity would be under the iron rule of a anti-Individualist regime, living day by day only at the behest of their superiors - without colour, without life. He saved the very essence of humanity. He will never be thanked for his methods, for the countless he slaughtered, but he will be remembered for the world he helped bring._

 _Peace. True peace. Where old tensions are just beginning to be buried, and though there will always be conflict, as for Humanity it is second nature, none are foolhardy enough to cleave millions more off the planet's population. Even the Faunus rebellion was meaningless compared to the honest, good-natured relations fostered between nations. Humanity is closer to true unification than ever, to a world without hatred. A dream made real. **Utopia**_ **.**

 **So very close.**

 _But those remnants of evil, those who seek nothing less than Humanity's extinction, have manifested again - with more power and more determination than ever before._

 _ **Cinder Fall.** (_ _Though Jaune has not met her, not yet,_ he will _.)_

 _The nameless, faceless, ambiguous nature of evil, different stories and reasons and beliefs and convictions united beneath a common error. During the great war, the Dictator of Atlas was one such pawn of the greater power, believing something similar to the current manifests now, but different all the same. Unchecked, Humanity would burn under the rule of Good Intentions run amok. It is seemingly the will of forces **Unfathomable** , of forces **Terrible and Dark.** But the odds for Humanity have always been stacked against them, yet they have struggled and pursued from the moment they were born and have come truly far._

 _After so long, it was time for Humanity to fight back. During the Great War, as the siege of Vale came to a smoldering close; it would've taken_ _a miracle for Humanity to win from that position, with Atlas so advanced and mighty no one on Remnant could ever hope to face them alone. An overpowering wave of black threatening to engulf mankind's brief existence, and turn it back to Dust **n**_ **o** _ **w d**_ **o** _ **e**_ **s** _ ** _n_ '**_ **t** _ **t**_ **h** _ **a**_ **t** _ **s**_ **o** _ **u**_ **n** _ **d f**_ **a** _ **m**_ **i** _ **l**_ **i** _ **a**_ **r** _ **?**. There was no hope, no thought of truly fighting back, only ties and losses cut to decrease the damage and fall ever further back. It was the direst hour, where hope was becoming abandoned in favor of terror._

 _Humanity was fated to lose, gazing at the ash-filled sky of Remnant with empty eyes._

 _ **And yet it was the Darkness that Lost.**_

 _That is what truly makes Joune Arc so remarkable. He did the unthinkable, the impossible... he defied 'Gods' and 'Fate' and 'The Otherworldly Powers That Be' **b**_ **u** _ **t n**_ **o** _ **t f**_ **o** _ **r**_ **e** _ **v**_ **e** _ **r**. Straying from the light and brandishing his own form of justice, yet never so far as to become another corrupted by his own belief. Where every other Fairy Tale began, where all thoughts of heroism turn to._

 _He is a Hero of pure Legend. His aura, his Semblance, his weapons - every aspect of his character have transcended from History. He wielded rage and fire and metal, and with them he has been forever carved into Humanity's very person._

That _is the only true wielder of Sunfire, the man that has shaped the face of history perhaps more than any other. And yet..._

 ** _There is a spark._**

 _Not a roaring ember, as Joune's youth fostered, but a **Spark** nonetheless. __In time, it will grow, becoming as great and fearsome as Sunfire, or perhaps even greater._

 _His conviction is the same, his drive is otherworldly - forces beyond reason have once again converged to forge another Legend._

 _Jaune Arc. **A**_ **n** _ **d a**_ **l** _ **l t**_ **h** _ **e K**_ **i** _ **n**_ **g** _ **'s h**_ **o** _ **r**_ **s** _ **e**_ **s** _ **a**_ **n** _ **d a**_ **l** _ **l t**_ **h** _ **e K**_ **i** _ **n**_ **g** _ **'s m**_ **e** _ **n c**_ **o** _ **u**_ **l** _ **d n**_ **o** _ **t p**_ **u** _ **t h**_ **i** _ **m b**_ **a** _ **c**_ **k** _ **t**_ **o** _ **g**_ **e** _ **t**_ **h** _ **e**_ **r** _ **a**_ **g** _ **a**_ **i** _ **n** _

_There never seems to be an end to those with dreams of changing the world - an admirable but often impossible dream. Those crushingly few who make a difference so rarely do it for the better, which is what makes the wielder of the **Spark** so extraordinary._

 _But it is up to the wielder of this **Spark** to prove himself, for fate grants no boon to no man, to fulfil his potential and awaken his power. And his window, as time passes, grows shorter and shorter until it inevitably closes._

 _Only Jaune Arc may allow the **Spark** to bloom, to let the immeasurable, intangible 'stuff' of heroes flourish. Only his determination will allow another Legend to rise. Only Jaune Arc may stand tall and slay the darkness._

 _...But perhaps it is already too late._

 _In one lifetime, where Joune Arc had never been imprisoned within Crocea Mors, Jaune Arc would never have learned the ugly truth about the man he so admired - something he will presently learn very, very soon. Only the warnings of his grandfather about the 'unimaginable danger' Crocea Mors posed gave him any notion of a hint. In that time, Jaune would have no true drive - his family would live soundly, and he would leave the farm out a sense of helplessness. He would become great, of that there is no doubt, but his potential would ultimately be wasted. Someone else would become the Savior of Remnant **a**_ **n** _ **d n**_ **o** _ **w s**_ **h** _ **e'**_ **s** _ **a m**_ **o** _ **n**_ **s** _ **t**_ **e** _ **r i**_ **s** _ **n'**_ **t** _ **l**_ **i** _ **f**_ **e** _ **f**_ **u** _ **n**_ **n** _ **y?**._

 _In this lifetime, when Joune Arc mentored the boy and forced him to realize several of life's harsh truths from a young age, where Ruby Rose is not quite the Savior of Remnant, Jaune has a drive. He has reason beyond a sense of empathy to become stronger. It is the most basic of them all._

 _He has to **Survive.**_

 _Despite the peace between Humanity, the Darkness has only grown ever more powerful. Though it may not be soon, someday the embodiment of evil may amass enough sheer power to march on Humanity's Kingdoms, and force the real threat of extinction upon them. It would be the bloodiest conflict in history, greatly surpassing the Great War and the Extinction era, where Humanity fought just to survive against the Grimm in an age where Dust was not discovered yet, combined. There would be no escape, no reprieve, no hope, only death and blood and war. And the Grimm, opportunists that they were, would take care of the rest._

 _It would no longer matter who the victor was in the end. Only the flesh-feasting animals of Remnant would profit._

 _ **T**_ **h** _ **e**_ **y** _ **r**_ **i** _ **s**_ **e** _ **.**_

 _To **Survive** the coming of this age of darkness, Jaune Arc must grow strong. Stronger than any other, strong enough to carry the entirety of Remnant on his shoulders, the weight of which was only just beginning to press on him. The **Spark** must transform into a brilliant expression of hope and faith - a beacon, a torch, or perhaps a simple guiding light. There is no world in which Jaune Arc, now that he knows the truth about his ancestor, can hope to survive without sheer tenacity. For a cause greater than himself by many fold, he must succeed where countless have failed._

 _It is a tall order, one which he may ultimately be unable to fulfil._

 _But Jaune Arc was nothing if not determined, and if not for himself, then for Remnant, he may stand up and fight._

 _He will make mistakes. He will falter. He will make friends, enemies - he will love, and hate. His Legend will ring loud and long of the virtue of hard work and determination in the face of adversity, when the only one who believed in him was himself. But what makes something truly legendary is not the act itself, no matter how awe-inspiring and impressive, but that a Human had done it. It was not a fairy tale that rose up and became a Hero, but a farm boy channeling the **Unbreakable Human Spirit**._

 _Joune Arc, the Slaughterer of Atlas._

 _Jaune Arc, the Savior of Remnant._

 ** _The legend begins._**

 ** _I d_** ** _o_** ** _l_ o _v_ e _a t_ r _a_ g _e_ d _y..._**

* * *

"Jaune! _Jaune!_ "

Jaune Arc's head snapped up from his bout of sleep with considerable force. "Hwah - eh - bwah?" He spluttered nonsensically, book stuck to his face like some kind of mask. He'd been reading an explanation on Aura channeling, trying to figure out proper if there was a way to unlock his Aura without the terrifying threat of death. But then suddenly it was tomorrow morning.

Violet's shining eyes, mischievous yet innocent in a way that was becoming uncannily familiar, stared at him over the book. "Didn't you hear? How could you not know!?"

"...Uhhh-" He commented articulately. The book suddenly fell loudly to the table, startling Jaune hard enough to make him jump.

" _Rose is back_!" Jaune stiffened, frozen in place. After several moments, Violet stepped forward and tentatively nudged Jaune, prodding his forehead. All at once Jaune started moving and with a lightning fast " _see_ _you!_ " dashed past Violet and went to see the sister he hadn't heard from in 5 years.

* * *

She hadn't changed much, though she definitely still had.

Five years was a fair amount of time, so it was unreasonable to think she'd look _exactly_ the same. Still, some small part of Jaune panged with disappointment at seeing Rose look even the slightest bit different. In a way, he'd wanted the good parts of the past to remain as they were - perfect, precious little memories.

And to think nothing of what had come shortly after them.

Rose was barricaded in on all sides by family members - from the shortest in Vert to the oldest in Bleu, though Rose was technically the eldest. If nothing else, her fluorescent pink hair remained impractically long, with braids on the sides to prevent any impairment of her vision. The markings on the sides of her face and right down her sleeveless arms hinted at her semblance, which Jaune could only vaguely remember as being _unending_ _pain_ from his earlier childhood memories. Whatever it was, _it hurt_.

And yet despite what remained the same, she'd still changed. It was easy to see it from farther away, but her whole demeanor was different. He'd gotten better at spotting these things, you see, from his training on 'reading movement'. He was little better than passable but right now passable was enough to see how she really, really wanted to get away from her overbearing siblings.

"Hey, Rose!"

He called to her when she was currently suffocating beneath three different conversations, so she didn't hear him at first, but upon the utterance of "HEY! YA BIG DUMB JERK!" not even the forces of Atlas could've stopped Rose's head from turning and calling back "SHUT UP, PIPSQUEAK!"

The gaggle of family members, sensing the mood, ceased talking and as one quietly slipped out the door.

A bolt of electricity sparked between Jaune and his eldest sister. She fired first.

"Looks like you still haven't grown, Pipsqueak!"

"Bubblegum flavor reject!"

"SHORT-STACK!"

"AIRHEAD!"

Lightning danced as the least stable relationship in the Arc family reared its ugly head, causing the two to bump metaphorical (and almost literal) heads.

"What?! First thing you do after seeing your eldest sister in 5 years is insult me?! What kinda ungrateful little shit-" the crowd hidden away in the back - the rest of the Arc family - gasped in unison at the language "-are they raisin' here?!"

'Rose', as her name might imply, definitively had her thorns. In terms of every child of the Arc family, she was the most hot-headed, arrogant, stubborn piece of work by a landslide. And to top it all off, she cursed fierce enough to leave a Sailor flustered.

"Why do you have to curse so much?!"

"Oh! _Oh_! You wanna hear some fuckin' swears kid, I'LL LIST OFF THE FUCKING _DICTIONARY_ -!"

The resulting onslaught of words and colourful language left the on-looking Arc family blanching in wholesome surprise, and Rose Arc herself sweating and panting. Jaune Arc crossed his arms and turned his head.

"Really? After all this time you're _still_ just a big, mean, stupid-"

With an incoherent cry of rage Rose Arc charged Jaune and gripped him by the collar, hoisting him up and up to face level, pressing him close for some awfully long seconds.

"...Yeah? Damn fucking _right_ I'm the baddest to have ever come outta this little backwater town." And with enough sarcasm to choke on, "thank you for the compliment." She dropped him with a thud, Jaune landing painfully on his rear.

Rose stepped outside, before leisurely reaching an arm back in and grabbing Jaune's shirt and dragging him with her.

" _Now_ , we can talk..."

* * *

"So," Rose drawled, their strange little ritual concluded, "what's changed, what's stayed the same?"

Jaune felt that was an incredibly difficult question to answer, but nonetheless he gingerly rubbed his arm and talked about some of the more 'notable' events of the past 5 years. The Red Morning from Hell, the Mysterious Disappearance of Bleu's underwear, the occasional Grimm attack. At times Rose would smirk and chortle out "yeah, that sounds like something she'd do..." though mostly, she stayed silent, leaning back against the tree. Jaune, sitting on the grass, gestured when appropriate or made vague hand motions to express some element of the story at the time, such as how Blanc might sneak past Grandfather on a cold Red Morning Eve to re-buy the presents she'd made clothing out of.

It was a lively 5 years. Some would be envious of a time spent with such joyful memories, but Jaune remembered it slightly differently. He always spent a little longer wishfully thinking out the window, dreaming of all that he could be without a thought for what was. To Jaune, these memories felt more like fairy tales, some stories the family had come together to conceive for the sake of entertainment. He'd always appreciate his family, that was true, but...

Jaune just wished he could do _more_ than clean up after Vert or read with Bleu. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life doing _this_ when he could at least _try_ and do so much more.

"...And that's probably everything important that's happened in the past 5 years." Jaune finished, visibly deflating as exhaustion began setting in.

Rose was pensive, hand cupping her jaw as she contemplated. Then, "...okay. But-" the base of Rose's very sharp heels drove Jaune's head into the ground, pressing him forward as though in a bow.

"You can _still_ be a dense little shit you know that!?" She put all her weight onto the heel, driving up Jaune's muffled protests by a few octaves. "I'm not asking about all those other _dipshits_. I'm _asking_ about _you!_ " She gingerly lifted the heel off of Jaune's skull, allowing him to sit up - which he did with a groan. "I don't wanna hear 5 years worth of stupid things that a family from buttfuck nowhere did." She levied a single significant digit at Jaune's face. "Girl problems. Melodrama. Mysterious hair growth." Jaune's head shot up at that. "I wanna hear the way your life bends before it breaks in detail, ya little pubescent shitstain." Her glare lightened. "I just wanna know how my stupid little brother is doing, ya hear me?"

Right now, he was currently repeating _how did she know how did she know_ through his head like a mantra, thinking about the 'Mysterious Hair growth'. Gingerly, and with his head slightly downcast, he rubbed the spot on the back of his head Rose's heel had stomped on and sighed.

"...I guess you could say I'm doing fine." He finally said, continuing on while muttering comments under his breath. "I mean, Grandfather still doesn't believe in me - _well no one does_ \- and I'm still trying to figure out what I'm doing with my life - _am I a hero or just some random kid training for some impossible goal -_ but otherwise my life is... well... normal." 'Normal' in the sense that nothing particularly had changed in the grand scheme of things. The sun shined, grass grew, and Jaune Arc was still just some kid from Nowheresville in Southern Vale. Which was why he probably still felt so... _frustrated_.

"I've told you before, ya know," Rose drawled. "If you're honestly sick of it, I could take you away. Become my Apprentice and go on adventures and save damsels in distress and shit. Finally have something to brag about besides being a 'nice guy'."

That particular offer had been left standing for a little over 5 years now, since Jaune was 7. After all, he couldn't just _abandon_ everyone, given all the ties he had to his hometown.

Well... _could he_?

After 5 years, was the answer really still 'no'? He was going to leave anyway, someday - of that he _swore_ \- to help people. Maybe he couldn't become a Hunter, as despairing bitter a pill as that was to swallow, but he could do _something_.

 _"You can. By picking up a tool and helping us farm, as you always have."_

He clenched his eyes shut. Well, besides what his grandfather suggested.

"I... don't know." He finally breathed out, thoughts churning and swirling like an ocean.

"Look," Rose bit out, "ultimately, you have two options. Stay here and be miserable for the rest of your fuckin' life or come with me and feel like shit for abandoning everyone. Sometimes, life ain't pretty, but you do the best you can." She crossed her arms. "Some motherfucking quality advice I just gave you, you might wanna remember it."

He'd take it into account, certainly, but only after he finished making one of - if not _the_ \- biggest decisions of his life.

Sensing the contemplative mood, Rose sighed in agitation. Her legendarily short patience had run thin. "Alright, since you clearly can't make up your mind, I'll give you time. How 'bout... three days. That's about when my leave ends anyway. I either pick your scrawny ass up on my way out, or I leave you behind. That should-"

Vert, the second youngest of Jaune's sisters, burst into the clearing. Jaune could see from the look on her tear-stained face, before she even said a word, that she was going to say something he didn't want to hear.

"Rose! J-Jaune! I..." Rose was instantly by Vert's side, holding her close and gently caressing her bright green hair. She didn't say so much as a word.

Vert sniffled, choking back more than likely a tidal wave of tears, and tried again. "I... something happened...!" She pushed off of Rose, and stared straight into Jaune's eyes. Her expression of grief and horror would stay with him for years to come.

"R-Rouge... is _dead!"_ And burst into an unending fit of sobbing, as the world swam and swirled before Jaune like the inside of a maelstrom. Jaune's vision twisted accordingly, everything span faster and faster until it reached a dulled blur, and the last thing he saw before he fell unconscious was Rose's utterly broken expression.

* * *

The funeral was held less than a week later.

The town was close-knit enough that it garnered a fairly large amount of people - those who had only met Rose through a friend or a cousin, but knew enough from her reputation as the sweetest, kindest child, all the way to her actual family. Faceless strangers who attended out of social expectation rather than personal attachment, kids from Jaune's class, the man from the flowershop who'd insinuated something Jaune vaguely remembered being chagrined about so long ago, and so many others. All of them dressed in black.

The Arc family gathered close together, refusing to move so much as a foot away, so close were they. Despite Blanc's wardrobe being almost entirely white, or varying shades thereof, her twin Noire had managed to find the time in her crippling grief to help find a dress.

A dress for their youngest sister's funeral.

They were currently holding hands, as much to help each other as themselves.

Violet and Vert weren't holding it in even the slightest, openly sobbing into Bleu's sides as the second eldest of the Arc siblings barely held together herself. The Grandfather of the Arc family stood firm, unyielding, almost unfeeling to some. But the tightened fists at his sides betrayed the existence of a heart very few saw, and let the attentive know that they were _all_ suffering in a time like this.

Rose was almost indifferent, not quite unfeeling, but so jaded from her experiences that the process of funerals seemed grating. To her, Death was Death. Senseless and tragic and terrible as it could be, and likely always would be. Later, she would let the immense, soul-crushing loss overwhelm her, and have her time alone. But she _refused_ to show weakness. A lifetime of experiences terrible and tragic had hardened her heart, and left her an indisputably strong Hunter. This would not break her.

But...

She cast a pensive glance at Jaune. He hadn't so much as said a word after he awoke from his feinting spell, eyes downcast and unwilling to look up even a fraction.

She knew she could deal, but _Jaune_... she couldn't even fathom what must be going through his mind right now. Was he _mute_ now, for Oum's sake? Did he blame himself? Well, knowing Jaune, he definitely did. The sun could fall and Jaune would somehow find a way to blame himself for it.

"...And it is in passing that we achieve immortality. Through this, we become a paragon of virtue and glory to rise above all. Infinite in distance and unbound by death, I release your soul, and by my shoulder, protect thee." The priest finished the Rites, giving his 'blessing' to Rouge's soul and allowing it to be free. Jaune had always felt that it was strange how someone's Funeral rites were often their Aura release phrases, but supposed it made a sort of sense, if the point was to 'release' a person's soul anyway. After all, Aura was just a projection of yourself, a physical manifestation of who you were.

He wondered if it was possible for Aura to manifest pure failure. Because, after all, of all the things Jaune had done, none had been so unbelievably stupid as _forgetting to visit his dying sister_.

He'd taken it upon himself to visit her, every day if he had to, for _so long_... but when it came down to it, he'd been so focused on his training, and she'd become forgotten. The one thing he swore he wouldn't let happen to her, to let her feel alone, and he'd allowed her to die without a single soul in her vicinity.

He'd read about her disease, this incredibly rare illness with a name too complex for his young mind to remember, though he knew the symptoms. And he knew that if she had died from the disease alone, and he had no reason to doubt such, then she'd been asphyxiated. She'd been strangled by her own body, choking on her own fluids, unable to so much as whimper as she was painfully ripped from this world.

The dark clouds hanging overhead boomed with thunder, and shortly thereafter a deluge of rain poured on Rouge's funeral. It was thick and heavy enough to soak Jaune through in almost an instant, but at that moment someone could've poured liquid magma over him and he wouldn't care nor notice. Those with the foresight to bring them raised umbrellas with a unison bordering on uncanny, forming together into a colorful roof that felt decidedly misplaced on a day like today.

In a move that surprised exactly no one, the man most likely to lie in Jaune's insignificant little town - that is to say the only politician - the Mayor stepped up, feeling a need to 'speak a few words'. Jaune grit his teeth, his hands tightening at the thought that tragedy could just be... _exploited_ like this. So many times after a Grimm attack or another terrorist incident from the White Fang, he always stepped up to 'say a few words', using the tragedies to push his agenda against the Faunus or something equally stupid. In retrospect, it made Jaune sick enough to puke - sick enough to feel the sickness course through his veins, laced with hatred, just _itching_ for an excuse.

"...And it's only with this tragedy that I hope you can finally realize the true threat to our community, to this humble town of ours." He gestured vigorously. "The Council!"

 _Mindless Anti-establishment hillbilly circlejerking_ , Rose thought. _Charming._

"For too long the Council has ignored us, never sending so much as a man to our aid! And now, our lack of medical staff, the manifested neglect of the council, has cost one of us our lives!" Jaune's fist tightened almost hard enough to bust a knuckle. But the petty politician wasn't done yet.

The crowd's attention was garnered in earnest - some nodding approval or visibly feeling the agreement, others slowly becoming incensed by the sheer gall it takes to preach an agenda at a time like this.

" _The council killed this little Girl!_ " He roared with a grandiose flair only those well-rehearsed could utter. Movements were beginning to happen in the crowd, and an instinctual tightness coiled in Rose's gut. Something very bad was about to happen very, very soon.

Jaune raised his head an imperceptible fraction. _Stop. This._

"If you're a true citizen of Vale, then you will recognize your oppression, your tyrannical overlords for what they are!"

 ** _Stop._**

"You will stand with me, and never let something as senseless as this tragedy happen - _ever_ again!"

Like a spring, Jaune uncoiled all at once, jumping to his feet in a flurry of movement and shouting all the way to the heavens above -

"STOP!" The crowd turned almost entirely as one to the interruption, breath bated. Rose's eyes widened.

 _No, Jaune, no... don't do what I think you're going to...I know it hurts_ but you can't-

"Who gives you the right to - to - _use_ Rouge like some fucking Fundraiser!? She's not an object, _she's my Oum damned little sister!_ " Jaune vented at the top of his lungs, rage flowing free. "And you - you're fucking _scum_! Why do people like Rouge die but people like _you_ get to live!? Huh!? Dwelling in that huge fucking house in the middle of town - you could house _all_ the poor in this town and not even put a dent in your money! You could solve our problems but you _don't_! Because it's just too _fucking inconvenient_ to fund our hospitals enough to help cure a _treatable disease_!" The crowd responded to Jaune's outburst visibly - some touched by the display, some wondering who gave him the authority.

"Care to offer a pretty speech about _that!?_ "

Rose was in the middle of praying. _No one say a word no one say a word no one say a_ fucking _word-!_

"Oh yeah? And who gave _you_ the right to decide who lives and who dies?"

It would never be known - to Jaune, anyway - who exactly said that, or who threw the first punch, but all at once the riled up crowd burst into infighting and rioting. Some went for the Mayor, but his expensive Atlas-produced bodyguards shielded him and forcibly parted the crowd almost immediately after the fighting started.

And Jaune was in the thick of it, shoving people apart and diving between the legs of others on his crusade for the Mayor. But the focus point of Jaune's aggression escaped, quickly accelerating away from the chaos in a luxurious black car, leaving him in the middle of an enraged mob.

Rose was busy attempting to prevent hyperventilation, as everything that could conceivably go wrong was spiraling catastrophically out of control. This situation was beyond her now, and there was absolutely no way to avoid what she _knew_ was coming next -

"JAUNE!" She shouted amidst the chaos and confusion, hoping somehow it would reach him. It did, and Jaune froze as he saw Rose's utterly panicked expression.

" _RUN!_ " She cried in a voice that penetrated through the anger and rage and years of frustrations being expressed around him, through it all and make him suddenly wonder with a clarity bordering on madness, looking around and repeating to himself _what have I done what have I done -_

A deafening thunderclap bellowed through the crowd from the forest, as the centuries old trees shifted and groaned, silencing Jaune's thoughts. The crowd, acting as one once more, stopped what they were doing and feebly turned toward the noise.

The thunderclaps continued rhythmically, each one louder than the last, until an enormous black paw burst forth from the shadows and promptly crushed a handful of trees at the forest's edge. The leg was thicker than a dozen tree trunks tied together, and went on considerably longer. Pulsing magma veined the leg, running along its leg all the way back to -

A chilling roar barged through the trees and the crowd, knocking many over and leaving few standing. The forest faired little better, and only then did the creature dip its head from the darkness surrounding it, revealing itself.

Lava spilled freely from its maw like slobber, incinerating the ground below, quickly catching fire to the old forest. It's whole body, colossal in size, far beyond Jaune's limited perspective, heaved with breath larger than a building. With a greater perspective, it was clear the creature was constructed of molten rock - both flowing and solid black.

Black wings, dripping fire and lava, slowly unfurled from its back, and as the mighty Deathwing reared itself to its full stature, Jaune and the rest of those only awaiting death could only pray for mercy.

Mercy the creature was obviously lacking.

* * *

 _So how'dya like that?_

 _Guess when you suddenly cause a huge surge in the amount of negative emotions - higher than average, anyway - in your local population, you shouldn't be too surprised that the Grimm show up, huh? What, it's canon that this stuff can happen... look it up... don't accuse_ me _of bad, un-foreshadowed twists._

 _Sorry for the 3 month wait... seriously had no idea it'd been so long._

 _As for Rouge's Aura release phrase being the same as Jaune's (in canon) ...well... that's more because I felt Rouge was kinda second Jaune and his personality fit her, so if your release phrase reflects you, it would be similar if not the same. And I needed a funeral rite that sounded cool... so... yeah._

 ** _Review, talk to your deceased ancestor, and forget about your own family today!_**


	4. Hero, IV: The Last Hero

_Recommended listening - ME3 OST, An End Once and For All_

 **RWBY Backstories:**

 _Hero, IV (4 of 4, or does it really?)_

 _The Last Hero_

 _Greetings ladies and gentlemen of the RWBY fanfiction community!_

 _So, here we are, again. You're probably wondering why this one has a name - and why the previous chapters suddenly have names too. Well, that's understandable._

 _This is the last chapter after all._

 _But wait, I can hear you squeal. What happens to Jaune? To his family? The town? Will it ever receive a name? Or the mayor?_

 _Find out... about now, actually._

 ** _Jaune's siblings, from oldest to youngest (for reference):  
_** _Rose (22), Bleu (19), Blanc/Noir (twins, 17), Violet (14), Rouge (7), Vert (almost 7)_

* * *

Jaune couldn't breathe.

The world was burning around him, moving so slowly as it neared its end. Screams stretched longer than normal and deformed into the death cries of the damned. The elongated teeth-rattling boom of enormous black legs stomping on the fleeing people; fleeing before the wrath of a fiery god. The distant sight of his grandfather ushering his siblings - his _family_ to safety.

This creature was not mere Grimm. This was one who had transcended the classified limitations of Grimm - beyond the simple bone-white armor all Grimm bore. It was already ancient when the world was young. The Deathwing was wreathed in steam and smoke and fire, peering into the dwelling of Man with an air of godly superiority in its burning red eyes.

There was no stopping it. It was as inevitable as the death it wrought.

For everything that Jaune had learned, everything he'd trained, nothing compared to the real thing. Before God, he was but a young child.

And yet Rose, who was arguing with Grandfather, refused to leave. She was a Hunter, and it was her duty to help. She was more than capable of recognizing the sheer discrepancy between her power and the Grimm's. How was she not afraid? What kind of person could stand up to something like that? Against a... a... a _monster_? An honest-to-goodness creature that rends flesh for fun?

Liquid ice poured through his veins.

 _A hero._

Something he always aspired to be, yet had proven himself not. Because somewhere in the back of Jaune's mind he knew who was to blame. Grimm don't just suddenly attack. They're _provoked_. And he'd instigated a full-blown riot, all because he was selfish, weak and just wanted someone _else_ to feel like he did.

The smoke rising from the forest fire burned his nose, and his lungs. But kneeling, watching the devastation, Jaune found that he couldn't care about much else anymore.

* * *

"Shit. Shit shit shit fuck shit shit SHIT FUCK-!"

Rose cursed louder and more profusely than she had in years, for a situation that was more than deserving of it. A fucking _Deathwing_ of all things, and this far south? Those things stayed to the isles northwest of Vale, an entire ocean away. No matter how she looked at it, something definitely didn't add up - but that was a question for later.

If there was a, well...

She really shouldn't have thought of that. She was trying hard enough not to panic at how _colossally fucked_ she and everyone in this little backwater town were. She'd love as much as anyone fucking else to run, but if nobody bothered to at least _try_ and stop it, there'd be no chance of survival for anybody. There wouldn't be anything but yet another burnt out town, razed by the Grimm overnight. Another smoking husk, swiftly forgotten.

But Grandad - bless his fucking cholesterol-riddled heart - refused to let her do her job. It didn't seem to matter how flagrantly obvious she made her point; her grandfather continued to ignore her. At this point, she was tempted to kick him in the dick and be done with it. Frustrated well beyond her wits end, she shouted -

"I don't fucking care what you think! You sure as hell didn't care when I left last time!" Which was the absolute _worst_ thing to say, because he visibly stiffened, obviously hitting a weak spot. But she _needed_ him to understand. "This is my choice! And I choose to buy you ungrateful little shits time!"

Her grandfather was quick to protest, but Vert's quick outcry of " _JAUNE_!" short and sharp and screamed with high-pitched worry, interrupted the argument. Rose looked and saw Jaune kneeling, expression heartbreakingly blank before the carnage he'd almost single-handedly wrought. She bit out a "if you follow me, I'll shove a pike up your ass and out through your teeth," and dashed off.

She stopped at Jaune's side, grasping his shoulders and shaking him. The Deathwing was taking its time, savoring the fear of its soon-to-be victims, but now it was approaching with more urgency, more haste. A sight as fearsome as a charging Deathwing would be the end of many, yet Rose couldn't care, all of her efforts focused on Jaune.

But he wouldn't respond, lost in his own world, as Death came for him and everything he loved.

* * *

 _He remembered the sweat on his brow, the utter exhaustion flowing through him as he panted and wheezed. As he ran and ran and ran and ran until he was unable to move, collapsing in a sweaty mess on a tree. Yet moments later he heard the growling of vicious Grim and he was off again, adrenaline pumping steadily as his heart beat like a jack rabbit._

 _Looking back was a bad idea. Because he knew, he knew, once he saw the blood and viscera dripping from the fanged maws, he'd lose all hope and let them have him. If he so much as thought of the tearing faces of his parents, rendered into fleshy scraps by gnashing teeth. So he looked forward, never stopping, over gnarled roots and past branches that drew blood when he touched them._

 _Away and away and away, towards the distant horizon, hoping to escape this nightmare._

* * *

"JAUNE!" Rose screamed as the Deathwing drew near. Shaking him did nothing - _everything_ did nothing to break him from the trance. Seeing little choice, Rose left her little brother alone, standing back and unfolding her weapon; a dark halberd with a dangling cloth of interlocking sakura petals attached to the end.

She bowed her head, hair shadowing her expression.

"Goodbye, Jaune." She let the tears fall, her own mortality staring her in the face. Her halberd rattled in a trembling grasp. "I... I never blamed you... not once..." She whispered, pressing her palm into her crying eyes. "If... if only I'd gotten there sooner, maybe Mom and Dad would've..."

The sentiment was lost on Jaune, his consciousness adrift. But now was not the time for that; she could feel as much guilt and regret as she wanted to later.

If there was a, well...

...She really needed to stop doing that.

* * *

 _He couldn't run anymore._

 _His legs refused to move, like lead weights attached to his waist. The sweat had drenched him, (as had his own urine), panting and heaving as he slid down the tree._

 _This was it._

 _After all of that, and Jaune Arc just dies. Nothing special. Nothing heroic. Nothing meaningful. Just another idiot who got himself eaten by the Grim._

 _Oh_ Oum _did he not want to die. He wanted to live, to taste Violet's terrible cooking, to read with Bleu, to be forced by Blanc into doing her chores - he wanted so many thing but he could not have a single one. He cried and cried because he had nothing left, no talent or ability that would magically save him from this nightmare._

 _The Grimm neared, fangs gleaming, eyes glowing, growling low and menacing, a horde of black. They approached slow, every intent on savoring the moment, the tangible fear and stench of dread. As they viciously tore him limb from limb, tasting death like a fine wine._

 _The leader of the pack neared, the smell of rotting flesh and blood wafting over Jaune in a choking embrace. It dragged a long claw over his throat, delicately cutting him open, before rearing back and -_

 _A high-pitched whir of shrieking metal tore through the Grim's head, exploding it into dark chunks of bloodied flesh. Rose Arc roared as loud as her weapon, leaping from the bushes in a stance._

 _"Stay the fuck away from my kid brother, assholes!"_

* * *

She couldn't win.

It was as impossible as a single man moving a mountain. No amount of effort could defy the enormous gap in power between her and the Grim. Her halberd sparked and glanced off the rock-flesh, and her high-caliber dust bullets were stopped cold even in its most vulnerable spots. As it stood now, if it wasn't for her Aura, she'd have been dead merely from its presence, the colossal wave of air-shifting heat it naturally emitted more than enough to melt flesh and bone.

But it didn't matter if the mountain was moved or not, not really. As she dodged the sweeping breath of fire from the Deathwing, while reloading her halberd's rifle compartment, she cast a glance back at Jaune and the other's, the latter of who were finally leaving (even if Vert and Violet had to be dragged screaming off without Jaune). It didn't matter if she succeeded.

As long as she bought them _time_.

* * *

 _He knew without so much as a word that she blamed him._

 _She didn't have to look at him, either - though ignoring him was one of her tells that she was emotionally unstable. Their parents were only out there because they'd been attempting to find Jaune, who'd wandered off. He was so curious, and the forest so - so - so like all those cool fantasy books he read over and over, about heroes and monsters and defeating evil and doing good, that he couldn't help it. But the young and curious are always predisposed to death - and in this case, it was the Grim that found a 7 year old Jaune alone in the forest._

 _His parents, who'd only found him just after, had put up a valiant fight - thinning the absolute_ horde _of Grim with expertise and grace, but the legendary Hunter duo had retired more than a decade ago. They were overrun, and their last words ended up as "Jaune!_ RUN _!" before the flesh was torn and the screaming began._

 _Jaune bore witness to the darkest act of evil he could imagine - pure monsters, devouring the flesh of his parents solely because they could. He would be the only one to carry that memory to the grave, something he was thankful for. He honestly couldn't want anyone else to experience this. Not ever._

 _But people did. People did lose parents, friends, family - all kinds of people that left the survivors traumatized and grieving. And so Jaune thought to himself "somebody needs to do something... even if it has to be me." Out of tragedy, ambition was born._

 _And, unfortunately, so was hate, and anger, and sorrow, and guilt... Jaune felt a million things and couldn't even begin putting words to any of them. It'd take time, time with family, and also time alone for him to cope. He couldn't even be sure of tomorrow as it stood right now. But he couldn't think about that. He needed to take it step by step, or else he ran the risk of falling apart under the crushing weight of his guilt._

 _Rose's silence certainly didn't help._

 _Finally, however, she spoke, raising her head with an air of finality._

 _"I'm leaving." For Beacon, it turned out. But to Jaune, it was all he needed to know that nothing would be the same anymore._

* * *

The halberd fell from Rose's grasp.

"I'm... sorry, Jaune." She rasped, body blistered from the heat and battered from the earth-rending stomps of the raging Deathwing. She stared, defiant, at the Grimm, a mortal before a fiery God. The Deathwing tilted its head, as though mocking her foolishness. A deep rumbling came from its chest, and it took a moment for Rose to realise it was laughing. She growled.

"F-f... fuck you!" She cursed with the last of her breath, her lungs heaving yet drawing in very little. Her legs had locked up, refusing to move; it was the only thing that kept her standing. Still, she continued to stare, defiant. A true test of willpower.

The Deathwing spent a moment more appreciating the sight of such insolence. Then, it drew back, and unleashed a storm of fire.

Rose allowed herself one more tear as the flames raced forward, one more chance to cry.

 _I'm sorry, Jaune. Could you ever forgive a fuck up of an older sister like me?_

* * *

For the first time in so many months (almost 4, to be exact), Jaune Arc once again did not know where he was.

"There has to be a world record for this or something that I'm approaching. But then it'd be held by the guy who always gets lost in the woods..." Jaune mused aloud, staring at the completely empty darkness around him. He idly kicked at the ground, something solid and smooth, like marble.

The last thing he seemed to remember was when Rose left him, and the rest of the Arc family. But that couldn't be right. That was 5 years ago. And before _that_ , he almost thought he could recall most of the memories in his life, like he'd very briefly experienced all of them again. But that didn't make any sense either. Was that what 'life flashing before my eyes' meant? Just-

"Hello, Jaune," a familiar voice said. Jaune blinked, lips parted slightly.

Finally, he droned "you were behind me the whole time weren't you."

"I was waiting for you to look around, yes. I felt it would help elaborate my point about being trapped within your own mind." Jaune heard over his shoulder.

Jaune spun around on the balls of his feet and did a double take. "What? How is that -" he stopped. "It's Crocea Mors." He continued dryly, with an air of certainty. "Everything crazy that has happened in the past 4 months has been because of that dumb, quasi-sentient thing-"

"Actually, Jaune, it was Crocea Mors that saved you." His teacher replied. Jaune made an expression of disbelief and confusion that was very difficult to replicate accurately. "You were trapped within your own mind, constantly cycling through your memories. You may not remember it, but Crocea Mors only saved you after 3000 iterations." The gravity of the situation hit Jaune like a sledgehammer, upsetting his buoyancy and almost caused him to fall over.

"3... 3000 times? I... I don't remember any of it..." Jaune whispered, shocked to the core. He cast one more look about at his empty surroundings. "But I still don't... where am I? Am I still... in my head?"

Joune Arc paused. "Yes and no. This space is a form of... merge between your mind and Crocea Mors. It saved you from the deepest recesses of your mind, but only one person may completely free you." He stated, and pointed. Jaune looked behind himself, following the direction of the pointed finger with his eyes.

"I don't see-" Something clicked. "Oh. Me. I have to save myself. Some real deep metaphor there." He laughed nervously.

"It is fact." _Yeah. Yeah, I was just trying to make a joke, teach..._ but Jaune digressed.

"...So, um, how do I-"

"Acceptance, Jaune." His teacher said as though Jaune knew what he meant, and he did, visibly straightening himself. Somehow, on an instinctually level, despite how vague his teacher was being, he knew _exactly_ what he meant.

"...I don't know what you're talking about." But he did. Jaune did, and his heart beat ice-cold blood through his veins. Anticipation drove spikes of pain through his chest.

"It's not your fault." His teacher finally said, and Jaune's heart stopped. "Your parents chose to-"

"BUT IT IS!" Jaune screamed back, trembling with repressed emotions. "They wouldn't have gotten eaten by the Grim if they weren't in that forest, and they wouldn't have been in the forest except for me!" He fell to his knees, voice softening as the tears fell. "All that pain, all that suffering... what my whole family went through... if it wasn't for me, my family would've been better off! Better off without the - the - talentless loser who can't even swing a sword without training hard! It's always been my fault because it's never _not_ been my fault! Why doesn't anyone understand!? I..." Jaune pressed his face to the cold, hard floor, like marble except... stranger to the touch.

"I... I'm no hero... I just want my parents back..."

And so Jaune cried, his wounds violently opened once more. Joune Arc let him have his moment, out of quiet respect for Jaune's normally fortuitous and humble, if however sarcastic, disposition. The Slaughterer of Atlas vaguely wondered if this was what having a Son was like.

Then, he spoke again.

"Jaune... do you recall what I said? The last time you were on your knees, saying you were not a hero?" Jaune didn't move, lost within himself. "Well, I certainly remember. I told you 'Good', because I wasn't either. Your typical Hero is an idealistic fool that doesn't understand that sometimes, bravery is not fighting monsters and saving the weak." Joune Arc kneeled, and gently grasped Jaune's chin, turning his head up. Sorrowful eyes stared back at him, red and puffy with tears. "Sometimes, bravery is having the strength to move on." He reached out, palm up, waiting.

"I cannot answer the question for you, Jaune. But I can tell you this: that pain has made you stronger. It has made your family stronger. You may never forget, but you may forgive. That is your choice." Jaune stared at the outstretched hand, mind turning to months ago, when a rather similar dilemma was presented to him. _But I can transform you into something better._

Except that was wrong. Joune couldn't change Jaune... only Jaune could do that. Closing his eyes, the young boy thought of his mistakes, his failures, all the times he'd ever fallen and hadn't the strength to stand up again. He thought of the bitterest moments of his life, when only delusions and fantasy had brought him comfort. He remembered Rouge's body hooked up to far too many machines, breathing weakly, barely clinging to life and visibly in pain all the while. Finally, he thought of his entire family, and everything they'd come through. Together.

Together. All of them, together, had overcome a nightmare. Guess you really couldn't ever keep a good Arc down, huh...

It all screamed back to him the same thing - talentless, spineless, over-ambitious farmboy from nowhere. That was all he'd ever been... but about now seemed like a good time for a change. If not for himself, then for _them_. All of them. Especially Rouge.

" _You're the strongest person I know."_

Well, guess it was time to prove that sentiment right...

* * *

 **?**

 **I am broken.**

 **From the moment I was conceived, wrought of ancient iron said to have pierced the flesh of the very first Grimm ever slain, I lacked something ethereal, something incorporeal - something fundamental.**

 **I was always better – able to be swung a little faster, pierce slightly deeper, reach slightly farther. No explanation was forthcoming, and there most likely never will be, for my strange properties. Nonetheless, I was recognized for my talents, a birthright of warfare bestowed onto myself by forces unfathomable.**

 **Some cruel twist of fate left me in the hands of the Fool. Leader, they had called him, but to me he was naught but a clown dancing in a field, swinging a metal club about with reckless abandon. I felt pure, unbridled revulsion every moment his weak, purposeless hands wielded me. If it was possible, I would've struck the witless fool down myself, but without the power I would later obtain, acknowledging my own existence still proved a near impossible feat.**

 **Thankfully, fate spared me from the fool's grasp not too long after I recognized the garishness of it. As fools do in battle, he fell, and I clattered before sliding to the dying grasp of my true wielder.**

 **I had sensed something utterly foreign so far in my limited travels – true conviction, the real spark necessary to stoke the flames the war. I thought fate had cursed me to watch it be snuffed out.**

 **But then the true power of my wielder came to bear, his semblance of Sunfire and Aura of death revitalizing him from the brink.**

 **Instinct guided his hand to my hilt, and it was then my true existence began.**

 **I became the pinnacle of any weapon's aspirations. I was swift, deadly, merciless, and efficient. It was all I could ask, to be wielded as a blade should and treated with respect for my gleaming, sharp edge.**

 **It is why I have found my near-century of silence infuriating beyond words, beyond thought. They acknowledge the prowess of my wielder, and myself, but they confuse their admiration for fear. Or perhaps it had always been fear, the weak fools too inept to understand a weapon could only be pointed one way – the way lying before the wielder.**

 **They slander actions they have no hope of having the fortitude to do themselves. They degrade the memory of someone far more significant than they will ever be.**

 **They have the gall to talk aloud in my presence, to wonder if I could speak, 'if I could've convinced my wielder to stop. Or if he wouldn't even listen to his own blade.'**

' **No', I felt an urge to growl, 'I would've convinced him to never stop and slaughter you all.' And they wonder why I am foul in their presence, even going so far as to call me cursed.**

 **I am and never will be the strongest blade, but to many I am simply Superior. I am simply Better. Deadlier. Stronger. Yet despite drastically exceeding any expectations a weapon bares, in almost all ways possible, they still question my judgement. They wonder if I had never been his blade if the millions he killed would still draw breathe, if my awesome and legendary power had not been added to his own, that they could've won 'fairly'.**

 **They will never understand, too safe and soft from peace and their warm beds and quiet nights.**

 _ **There is no 'fair' in war**_ **. There is a victor, and then there is the slain. The victor embellishes his deeds and becomes legend, while the slain is left for the Grimm and swiftly forgotten. I could feel the mistrust and the hatred polluting the Aura's of every soul I passed, however slightly, grow and grow as the years dragged on. If that war had continued, Humanity would have drowned in their own hatred.**

 **My wielder sacrificed himself more, spilled more blood, and killed more enemies than any other soldier in the entire Individualist army. To the standards they imposed on him, that the war forced on him, his unrelenting courage and countless sacrifices made him a Hero.**

 **Yet when he had returned from his crusade, they shunned him, demeaned him, and called the greatest hero Humanity has ever known a Monster. I was there for every moment of it, holstered on his side, more than ready and definitively willing to be drawn and unleash my battle cry of ringing metal. But my wielder stayed to his morals, and refused to slaughter the very people that betrayed him.**

 **What should have been the very beginning of the thanks he deserved became the start of his downfall.**

 **They convicted him of 'war crimes', not to instill a sense of justice but clearly to save face, so spineless and weak that morality only served as an excuse to further their own agenda.**

 **He could not return home, exiled from any council-recognized Vale settlements, though I couldn't imagine he had a proper one to return to. And without the ability to cross seas, that left little choice but the wilderness.**

 **I will spare the details of what happened after, mostly because I feel as though one may already know.**

 **But then after so long my wielder was holding my hilt again, that same conviction filling his Aura. Yet when I felt its purpose I could not contain my horror.**

 **His own continued existence would only further exacerbate the world's troubles, more than likely resulting in eventual military action from Atlas, perhaps even from Vale itself, to end his existence and leave countless dead in the crossfire. So he had decided, resolutely, to end his own life to protect the worthless lives of those that had betrayed him yet again.**

 **As his weapon, I am… numb, I believe would be the best word, to his logic. It was sound, given his criteria for what constituted success. It makes a cruel and unforgiving sense to be the weapon that ends my wielder's own life as the Hero he'd always been, rather than let himself and myself become tainted and twisted by the dark emotions steadily brewing beneath his surface. Better to be in death as you were in life than to draw breath as an abomination.**

 **And finally, their unspoken assumption about my nature – that he had chosen me.**

 **In a true relationship between weapon and wielder, there is no choice, only mutual agreement. They become a pair, faithful to one another, a bond formed in the sometimes literal fires of adversity.**

 **I did not choose Joune Arc. He did not choose me. He wielded me with unwavering conviction and I destroyed his enemies with unwavering determination.**

 **It is a way of life that he and I lived proudly. And perhaps there is a story to be told, a lesson to be learnt, inspiration to be garnered from the anguish of my wielder's existence. About how much a man can bare and how far he can go with only a dream in his heart and righteous conviction in his soul.**

 **But the untold aspects of the legend of Joune Arc have never been my point.**

 **I was forged with something inherently missing from myself. Something I only later found the meaning of upon gaining sentience.**

 **I was forged without a heart.**

 **As a weapon of war, I have no conscience. My duty, my purpose begins and ends with Death. I feel no pity, no remorse. I do not hesitate. Most of all, I do not 'feel'.**

 **But my wielder always has.**

 **What had kept him Human despite the unbridled insanity lurking within, despite the countless he slaughtered, was that he never meant it.**

 **He never wanted them to die. He never actively sought out death. He did what was necessary to prevent the total destruction of humanity, but despite walking forward with a purpose greater than any other, he still doubted himself. The dark, twisted part of himself that enjoyed the power pure chaos brought forth remained locked away, never allowed to grow, but was acknowledged as a part of himself.**

 **No matter how black it became, no matter how much it endured, his heart stayed strong and true.**

 **In the end, it was not his skills or perhaps even his conviction that made him my destined wielder.**

 **It was because of the moments we spent under the moonlight together, kneeling in the ashes of a million dead souls, praying for forgiveness, and realizing how insignificant we truly are.**

 **He taught me… humility. Empathy. And the true, endless wealth of a soul.**

 **I was born broken. I was wielded while incomplete. But in the final moments of his life, as his blood flowed and his aura drained away, I took more than just my wielder's life.**

 **I took his heart.**

" _ **Protect them. Whatever it takes…**_ **"**

 **I will never, ever disobey his final command; I owe him too much. But now it is time to let go. I have seen what the equivalent of my obsession with my wielder has done to humans. Wounds held open only continue to bleed, and worsen.**

 **After all this time, I have found another wielder. One who currently lacks power, but possesses the conviction to obtain it. Most importantly, he has something that so many lack.**

 **He has the heart of a Hero. Or maybe that's the wrong word. It is impossible to discern if Jaune Arc has any desire to be a Hero, after witnessing my original wielder's tragic existence. I believe he has done something I thought Humans were almost incapable of.**

 **He has learned from the past. He knows that there is a distinction between blind, pointless selflessness and true heroism. Though he may try and spend his entire life upholding the ideals of one, he will never be foolish enough to think the human condition can be solved.**

 **I… am proud of my new wielder. I know pride is an emotion unbecoming of a weapon, but it is what it is. Jaune Arc is a worthy successor, perhaps even more worthy than Joune. He will do what other's cannot, and become the next beacon of hope – of light, perhaps Sunfire, perhaps something greater – for Remnant to rally behind.**

 **The boy has his flaws, his weaknesses, his mistakes. He is human, after all. But I could not ask for someone better.**

 **And I know, with a certainty that defies reasons, wherever Joune is, he agrees with me.**

 **He may just avoid his ancestor's fate yet.**

 **I unlock Jaune Arc's Aura with a furious display of willpower, and allow myself to fall back into the fold of war.**

 _ **I have a lot of catching up to do.**_

* * *

 _Ha! You thought this was the last chapter!? YOU WERE WRONG! YOU MUST CONSTRUCT ADDITIONAL PYLONS!_

 _Next up, Jaune does something y'all ain't ever gonna forget. Presumably because it will be badass and not that terrible. After that, Weiss goes through the ringer that is the ever-present sadism of writers._

 _Working title of it is 'Porcelain', like a doll. If anyone has anything better, a PM would be mandatory. Notice that I did not say welcome. But you would get Internet Points + Cookies hand-baked and delivered... just kidding, it'd be internet points._

 _But you'd always be special in my book! That's gotta be worth slightly more than a +1... right?_

 ** _Review, and go on an epic adventure... today!_**


	5. Hero, V: The Story of Jaune

_Recommended listening: Unravel (Acoustic Version)_

 **RWBY Backstories:**

 _Hero, V (of 5)_

 _The story of Jaune_

* * *

 _Greetings ladies and gentlemen of the RWBY fanfiction community!_

 _Let me be the first to say this:_

 _PSYCH_

 _Bitch, you thought last chapter was the last chapter? Hell NAH. I couldn't do that to ya, leaving everything on a cliffhanger for you to find in 60 billion years whenever I get around to writing Creeping Thorns. We got one more to go. And that one is this one._

 _Afterwards, we got Weiss Schnee goes through the emotional trash compacter, and much laughter is had by all! Well, by very mean people anyway._

 _Here's to lookin' at you kid._

* * *

The effect was rather immediate, all things considered.

The moment Jaune's hand grasped his teacher's fully, the world around them began collapsing. Cracks raced along the fringes, ground sundering and chunks of… whatever it was the dimension was made of falling to the ground in great crashes and explosions of dust. An unholy rumbling began, steadily growing louder like the roar of a ferocious beast.

"Well," Jaune commented as a particularly large chunk of marble/plastic/rock-esq substance almost crushed him. "This is bad." He looked to his teacher, standing beside him. "So uh, how do we-"

"That part… I was not informed of." Joune Arc stated calmly as he deftly dodged the raining debris, and with a surprisingly even tone his student drawled –

"You can topple a dictatorship but not realize you need _directions_?"

Joune Arc felt slightly offended. Slightly. But not too much.

"For the record, I was unaware the dimension would collapse in such a lively fashion. I assumed it would be…" he made a motion with his hands.

"Poof, we're out, hey everybody sorry we're late lets kick some ass?" Jaune tried, and his teacher paused to consider. He lazily extended an arm and shattered a piece of debris gunning for his skull in half, then said –

"Something like that - "

The ground suddenly shattered. All at once, like tearing paper, the dimension split in half, with cracks running through the remaining ground. With a facial expression that practically screamed 'oh come on we're doing ravines now' Jaune fell into the ravine.

Joune, in a bid of rather dramatic timing, caught Jaune's hand just before it was out of reach, his student dangling above a rift to Nowhere Pleasant. A long moment of tense silence was spent as Jaune held on for dear life, swaying in the sudden rushing wind that almost buckled over his ancestor.

"Okay!" Jaune shouted over the raging wind. "I take back what I said! This is beyond bad! This is really, really, really-"

"Quiet, you." The mass-murdered grumbled and heaved, even his legendary strength being tried by the vacuuming wind, drawing them into the nothingness below. Finally, he was making headway as the world began uttering its death cries, the wind reaching a deafening decibel as more and more of the void began to peer through the former ceiling of the sub-dimension. It was all coming apart, the sub-dimension akin to a dropped snowglobe. Small and contained, with a much, much larger world outside. A world composed of darkness and mouths and eyes and teeth.

And then time slowed. Jaune, unable to breath a word, could only watch, with terrible slowness, a chunk of the dimension fall directly onto his teacher, who could dodge without letting go and being pulled into void below.

 _"JOUNE!"_

He turned, his transcendent reflexes letting him watch his end. He smiled, faintly, and said -

"I know you'll make me proud, Jaune... I never had a son, but I wonder-"

And then he was gone.

Jaune let go, plunging into the abyss below, a sensation of numbness that was all familiar overcoming him.

 _Again... why'd it have to happen again? How much can I possibly screw up in a lifetime...?_

His tears trailed after him as he gained speed, the force of the wind and some mysterious gravity pulling him very deep very quickly.

As he fell, he heard a voice, which he ignored. The voice spoke again, more urgently this time, but Jaune could barely think.

The voice spoke once more.

" **Look behind you.** "

And he did, twisting as he fell.

 _Crocea Mors._ Tumbling with him into nothingness.

" **How do you leave a room, Jaune? The same way you came in."**

Jaune reached, the void swallowing him and Crocea Mors whole.

* * *

 _But then he wasn't there. He was home, in the backyard, in the town, buying flowers, by Rouge's side, reading with Bleu, in his parent's arms -_

 _He was **everywhere** , simultaneously. Everywhere he'd ever been, and some places he hadn't been yet, (-the fluttering of scarlet petals atop a lake of blood, a crying God and a monster brought low, a hero corrupted and redeemed-) and it was with dim awareness, a small spark in the darkest night, that Jaune realized where he was._

 _The loop. His memories, all of them, pouring into and through him and back in again that he had no idea how'd he mistakenly thought he was reliving them one at a time. It was all so much more than a human mind could possibly handle, but the blade in his hand, as weapons do for their wielders, guided him. And so Jaune Arc shouted -_

 _" **Stop.** "_

 _And the world did, for this was his domain, his mind,_ his _memories. Jaune breathed, or did some motion mostly similar as he wasn't entirely sure if he had lungs, or a body for that matter, and looked around. Every single moment, no matter how miniscule, was in here, wrapped around and around and around into enormous circles and stacked to form looming spires that vanished into infinity. Though he knew with a strange calmness that it must end somewhere, someday. No man lives forever._

 _He returned to the last thing he consciously remembered, following the great reels of memories until he wound up at the funeral. (Wait, how did that work? How was he using his head while still inside it? Oh dust, that was a migraine, a migraine, a migraine, ow...) He levied Crocea Mors, both hands steadied, and thought of his mentor._

I don't think Dad would've minded if I said you were like him... _a single tear, shed in remembrance._

 _And then he struck, piercing through the veil._

* * *

Rose Arc spent precisely three moments wondering why death felt so much like pure exhaustion and _heat_ before opening her eyes.

The sight before her was actually so incredible, so unbelievable, that she spent another moment longer pinching her cheek. When that returned no results, she finally uttered in a dry rasp -

" _What the fuck...?_ "

The world to either side had been incinerated in hellfire, but directly in front, the fire had split, sparing her and the grassland behind her for at least half a mile.

She continued looking, observing, and never had a incredulous expression of disbelief been more fitting than seeing Jaune Arc standing unscathed from the flames, his aura shining brightly like a cloak of white fire. An enormous amount of Aura was exuding from him, more in a minute than many hunters ever possessed in a lifetime, rolling off of him like it was alive. No, not just Aura.

 _Semblance_. The kind that managed to weather the earth-melting flames of a millennia old Grimm.

Imperviousness, or blocking of some kind... but complete immunity to anything the world threw at him sounded so very _Jaune_ she was already willing to bet on the former.

Jaune was silent, unmoving, like a sentinel. Rose Arc rasped with the last of her strength, hoping Jaune was paying attention, "please... get our family to safety..."

And then collapsed, exhaustion overcoming her will.

Jaune looked back, at the sister that had always protected him from bullies and the worst life had thrown at him, yet when he had needed her most, she'd vanished. Yet he only hoped she could forgive him for taking so long, and silently promise to take it from her, thanking her for her heroism.

The Deathwing had been busy observing, eyes narrowed dangerously at the young human with such a foreboding presence. It spoke in words not understandable by any creature except Grimm, the sort of guttural and primal sounds that chilled Jaune to the bone. The boy wasn't certain what the Grimm was saying, but was willing to bet with the ominous body language it vaguely went along the lines of "your doom is imminent, rah rah rah I'm a scary dragon...fear me..."

Jaune snorted despite himself, choking back on his laughter. So maybe now was _not_ the time to be-

The Deathwing all at once roared and lunged, seeking to crush Jaune beneath it's enormous feet in a surprisingly nimble attack.

Jaune Arc would've, once, probably screamed like a little girl and gotten crushed. Once, he might've barely dodged the attack, also screaming all the while.

Now, with his Aura, Jaune Arc felt unstoppable.

With speed previously thought impossible, Jaune _moved_ , dodging the enormous feet and moving between them, Crocea Mors drawn and hacking away freely. Great gashes opened up in the creature's legs, magma oozing, adding to the intensity of the heat. But Jaune wasn't stopping, leaping onto a leg and with gravity defying speed running up the creature's body.

" _The weakpoint of every Grimm,_ " his deceased teacher's advice droned in his ear, " _is always the head. Decapitation has the same effect as crushing it, though do be warned some Grimm may have multiple heads. And even then, I have seen some Grimm be capable of overcoming this weakness, surviving after losing their head. It is up to your abilities as a Hunter to ultimately slay Grimm, so do not underestimate them just because of a simple weakness. That is the death of many fools._ "

He continued running, Aura shielding his body to withstand the heat. He leapt up and landed atop the monster's shoulder, Crocea Mors embedded in its hide to stabilize himself as the creature thrashed about. He ducked under a swipe as it reached over, trying to claw him off, but Jaune was as determined as he could possibly be. He dashed up, along the spine, pining for the head. Jets of magma burst beneath his feet, a last ditch attempt to dissuade the human from his path. Jaune Arc's semblance activated without conscious thought and let him run through, dashing through the magma in his endless zeal. Emerging from the jets with a roar, Jaune brought Crocea Mors to bear, and reared it back to plunge deep into the creature's skull.

 _But for all of man's achievements, all of his accomplishments, there was one undeniable fact. No man could slay God._

Jaune failed to see the enormous tail reaching up and lancing forward with incredible accuracy, straight for his back. He only saw it when suddenly he couldn't feel anything, and looking down, something black and sharp protruded from his chest. Crocea Mors tumbled from his grasp, falling several stories below, and its newest wielder soon followed with nary a word.

Jaune impacted with a definitive thud, a variety of bones broken and protruding from his body. He gurgled listlessly, _what... how... I... why am I such a screw up..._ and blood bubbled from his mouth. His semblance, still fledgling, was suddenly uncontrollable and refused to obey his commend, and his aura was much the same, though he did not know much about controlling it anyway. His blood pooled, spreading wider and wider, staining the green grass red.

It would seem, no matter how determined Jaune had been, there were still certain fundamentals he must abide by. For his arrogance, the Grimm God punished him severely, as Gods are want to do. But the punishment was just beginning.

The Deathwing reared its head up, and cast its malevolent gaze on the distant crowd of fleeing civilians.

Jaune's groaning suddenly became urgent, _no... no... please Oum... no... ! Please... !_ as the Deathwing took flight in a single, forest-felling flap of its wings. Then, it dove, and all Jaune could hear was the distant roaring of the Deathwing and the screaming of its victims, melted alive in its presence and set alight by its breath. The sound of extinction, in the most terrifying and painful way possible. The wrath of God made manifest.

Everyone Jaune had ever known, everyone he'd ever loved, was turned to ash. Cast into hell, screaming and covered in flames. And all he could do was hear it happen and let his imagination do the rest.

The town of Vir was no more.

 _Please... please... let them have gotten out..._

With his body broken, all Jaune could do was plead, which seemed to be all he was good for. He stubbornly attempted to turn over, to just _see_ Rose one last time before his latest screw up managed to finally finish him off, but Jaune couldn't feel anything below his neck. Dimly, he realized his spinal cord must've been severed, and his tears started again. A helpless failure, right to the end...

And then the Deathwing was looming, lording over him and reviling in its power, simply watching the life drain from Jaune in sick pleasure. Jaune willed himself to reach, reach out and clock the Grimm right in its smug face, but his spine was severed and his strength was gone. He struggled and struggled, even now, but nothing happened. Worse still, he was losing consciousness, the gaping hole in his chest steadily draining him of life. Darkness lurked on the edges and pressed in, and his pleading turned desperate, just another human laid at Death's feet. As the darkness swallowed his vision whole, he cast one last sorrowful glance at Rose, as best he could.

 _I'm... sorry..._

And so Jaune Arc died, dreams unfulfilled, world unsaved.

Another legend, snuffed out before it truly had a chance to shine.

* * *

 _...It is unfortunate that Jaune's fate is such, but Humanity's existence has long been on borrowed time. It is no surprise-_

 _...What? What is this? How can- **NO! YOU ARE DEAD! THE NATURAL ORDER CANNOT BE DISOBEYED!**_

 _"I have one last part to play, False God."_

* * *

 **A spark.**

 **A glimmer of light, as steel shines with the valiant declaration that Fate itself must be wrong.**

* * *

 _"You would be wise not to interfere."_

* * *

 **Crocea Mors rose, transcending the insignificant mortal force of gravity and polarity, entirely in its own world. The Deathwing had but a moment to pause from its meal before blinding pillars of Sunlight burst from the ancient weapon of war, piercing its body more deeply and cleanly than any physical weapon could. It roared, experiencing an agony it hadn't in hundreds of years, and leapt away.**

 **The beams coalesced, slowly bending and taking shape, forming a golden silhouette. Legs, a torso, arms, all clad in shining armour. Finally, a head was formed - covered in plated metal that formed a menacing regal shape, golden wings framing the sides. Sunlight continued to billow from the gaps in plating, adding to the intimidating nature of the figure wreathed in platemail. But the shape was not whole, only ethereal, maintained solely by the last dredges of aura buried deep within Crocea Mors. It was a shadow, perhaps even less.**

 **Even so, Joune Arc looked every bit the Knight of War he'd ever did in his prime, weakened as he may be.**

 **"I was fortunate that I managed to dissipate and return to Crocea Mors when I did, otherwise I may have finally become nothing." He raised a hand, and the creature involuntarily stepped back, flattening half a dozen trees in a single movement. Crocea Mors continued to rise, fitting into his grasp as though it had never left it. He gave it a twirl, masterfully wielding it in mere moments after almost a century.**

 **"I am not long for this world, not since Crocea Mors decided to release me, earlier. I am aware that I could have lived forever within the blade if I had asked for it, but, well..." the Slaughterer of Atlas abruptly realized it was trying to hold a conversation with Grim, and chuckled to himself. "I don't believe you care. That's quite fine." Crocea Mors sang with a battlecry of ringing metal, and the Knight assumed a stance. Sunfire began to flow from the gaps in his armour, incinerating the earth beneath into less than dust.**

 **" _This is for my son._ "**

 **And struck, rapidly involving himself in yet another battle for the ages.**

* * *

 _...How... how can this be...? Could the calculations of mind's the size of entire dimensions be wrong?_

 **I d _o_ b _e_ l _i_ e _v_ e t _h_ e _y_ c _a_ n.**

 _You have no say in this, Witch._

 **Y _o_ u m _a_ y c _o_ n _t_ i _n_ u _e_ t _o_ b _e_ l _i_ e _v_ e t _h_ a _t_. I d _o_ l _o_ v _e_ w _a_ t _c_ h _i_ n _g_ t _h_ e f _e_ e _b_ l _e_ s _t_ r _u_ g _g_ l _e_.**

 ** _OUT!_** _Out, you insufferable, conniving Witch!_

 **...F _i_ n _e_. B _u_ t t _h_ e b _o_ y i _s_ m _i_ n _e_...**

A dark, slow chuckle filled the air like smoke, then the Witch was gone. Echoes of her chuckle faded quickly, but not quickly enough for the False God's taste.

 _...The world is taking an interesting turn. Just how special are you, Jaune of Arc, I wonder...?_

* * *

 **The battle was godly, to be sure.**

 **The Deathwing's fire melted rock and earth like butter, while Joune's simply purged them from existence. The collision of metal and fang shattered the very ground they stood on, like glass. Explosions of light reached the sky, splitting the clouds miles above from sheer aftershock. Deep ravines were filled with magma from when the beast had been wounded, and gouges that went far further than the eye could see into the earth were present after every swing of Crocea Mors. The land was being transformed into something otherworldly in mere minutes - endless pits, rivers of lava, new hills and inclines and utter devastation crested by the remains of something even less than ash.**

 **It was nothing short of a small miracle that Jaune's corpse and Rose's unconscious form escaped harm, save some minor singeing.**

 **Finally, they clashed once more, Sunfire rolling off Crocea Mors as it held back the fangs of the foul God. They struggled, and it was the earth itself that gave first, the mighty Deathwing's enormous paws and Joune Arc's feet driving into the dirt, shattering it again and again. Joune Arc stepped back minutely and slashed, the air itself momentarily cut open in a great gaping wound. The Deathwing dodged the attack, nimbly leaping back into a lava pit, the excess molten rock spilling over into a nearby gorge.**

 **Joune Arc paused for a moment.**

 **"It appears I am out of time. Very well, now that you can no longer dodge-" faster than the eye could see Crocea Mors impaled the Deathwing's wing to the ashen terrain, and with its paws in liquid, it could not gain any traction. It roared, like desperate prey, only now realizing the folly of its arrogance. Joune Arc had carefully planned this, manipulating the battlefield itself, like the legendary fighter he was.**

 **His hands came together with steady concentration, focusing on an invisible point between them. "I learned this one from a Schnee." Aura gathered, continued to gather, and gather, and gather, until the sphere was radiating with sunlight intense enough to extinguish the existence of the world around him - small rubble began to levitate under the localized forces at play - then it was compressed all at once, the rubble falling, becoming an impossibly small sphere. Joune's hands spread, and the side's of the sphere followed, stretching and lengthening, molded like clay. A spear of pure Sunlight was formed, with all the intensity of the Sun itself.**

 **Joune delicately grasped the handle, and all at once the light dimmed and before him was an ornate white-gold spear tipped with the head of a striking lion, blade extending from its mouth.**

 **"I have not used this to kill someone in quite some time. Mostly since it is quite..." He flicked his spear to the side, attempting to dispel the dust that had picked up. When that failed, he resorted to batting the cloud away with his hand, like it was a foul stench. The Deathwing began to wonder just what kind of idiot it'd lost to.**

 **"...I became distracted. Where was I? Ah, yes." He readied himself, coiling his body in a picture perfect throwing stance, arm extended as far back as physically possibly. "The simple matter of smiting you... smote? Smite-ed? ...Most assuredly has to be smiting..." If Jaune were still alive at this present moment, he might wonder if he was getting a glimpse into his future.**

 **The Knight shook his head, and sighed. "I was never very much good with one-liners."**

 **And threw the Sunlight Spear hard enough to shatter the sound barrier twice over.**

 **At the speed, at that range, with its wing impaired, its death was inevitable. The Deathwing shrieked one last time in its ancient foul tongue, uttering a phrase that gave Joune pasue, before the spear pierced its skull and decapitated it. Well, decapitated is the wrong word - that implies the head survived the impact. In reality, the moment the Spear had finished piercing the creature's body, it was already disintegrating at a blinding fast rate, like a wildfire burning existence itself. Even its molten blood was nothing compared to the physical embodiment of the sun, vanishing into less than nothing like the rest of its body.**

 **Soon enough, the lava pool was empty,** and so Joune Arc turned around, walked briefly, then kneeled before Jaune Arc's dead body.

His silence was long, and pain-filled, but finally he mustered the power to speak.

"I have failed you. Like so many others that put their trust in me, your faith has lead you to ruin. I... I can only hope you may find it in yourself to forgive me..." His head dipped lower, the perpetual flow of Sunfire abating as the last of his Aura depleted. "And that you never have to stoop low enough to learn of _this_."

Darkness tinged the edges of Joune's aura, steadily spreading like a disease until his fire was as black as the void. Red dripped from his eye sockets, splattering onto Jaune's cold body in splotches. The same language the Dragon spoke began to slowly pour from his mouth, a dark and menacing incantation of forces far beyond comprehension.

The darkness of Joune's aura spread like a living shadow, reaching in and around Jaune's body. It touched him in ways only incorporeal objects could, caressing and corrupting the inner workings of his soul, seeding his heart for later defilement. It enveloped his frame, rendering his body a perfect silhouette - save for the red, bleeding eyes.

 _"Death is man's weakness, and our Strength. Through pain, anger and despair, we become the darkness all light births. Endless in hate, and to which love is meaningless, your soul is freed. The Witch guides us."_ The warrior continued in Grimm-tongue.

All at once, Jaune's body spasmed, black liquid frothing from his mouth, toes and fingers and limbs twisting in ways they were not meant to. His wounded chest was covered by black, then made anew, flesh sewed shut instantly by the dark forces. His corpse unleashed an inhuman roar, the Witch's mark branding permanently onto his soul.

"...All these years, I thought this curse would die with me... all the compulsions, the anger, the senseless death to keep it fed... and while I could leave you, Jaune, I don't believe that would be in Humanity's best interest... the world will always need monsters like us." The savior of Humanity bowed his head in deep regret. "...I only hope you understand..."

The roaring stopped, and Jaune's body flopped to the ground. Slowly, slowly, the darkness receded - where to, none knew. When it was gone, only two red trails, dripping from Jaune's eyes alluded to the fact it ever existed. What had previously been utterly still now rose and fell steadily, Jaune's life returned by methods unnatural and vile. Joune Arc's darkness went along with Jaune's, but as it left for parts unknown, so too did his hands.

His aura was finally, utterly gone. Expended for the sake of someone else. And so, like a strange mix of dust and smoke, Joune Arc steadily fell apart and drifted away.

" _You can do better than I ever did. I know you can._ "

It was just his head left, his body gone with the wind. Then, with a smile that none could see, the old legend closed his eyes-

 _No man may live forever. Not even you, Joune._

-and disappeared forever.

* * *

 ** _Several Days later_**

* * *

Jaune Arc walked through the smoldering remains of his home. In the Deathwing's wake, everything had become ash - so much of it and so thickly that it hung in the air and stuck stubbornly to the inside of one's lungs. There was not a single building left standing in the whole town, and though he had hoped, he was not surprised to find their home like this.

He sifted idly through the wreck, trying to find something that had escaped the Deathwing's fiery wrath. But it was just ash; a life of memories... all of it... ash.

"Jaune!" Rose's voice called out, and he sighed, cancelling his admittedly hopeless search.

"Coming!"

Though the path was vaguely treacherous, Jaune Arc managed his way out of the wreckage, before his impatient elder sibling.

"About time. What, you meet a nice piece of ass on the way?" She grunted out, and Jaune balked.

"I..." but the retort died in his throat, the emotional exhaustion draining his will. It made most things hard to do in fact, such as breathing, or walking. Rose, sensing the mood, "tsk"-ed and looked away.

"Come on. It's time we got out of here." And walked, down the pathway from their former home.

Jaune's fists tightened so much he could hear his bones shift. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he still didn't know about what had happened 3 days ago, but none of it changed the fact that it was indisputably his fault, and his alone. He would carry the regret and guilt of it for the rest of his life, of that he was certain.

Considering there was both figuratively and literally no longer a home he could return to, Jaune was finally walking the path he'd always wanted. Rose was bringing him along as an apprentice, to learn how to be a Hunter out in the field, a much older and uncommon yet still equally valid way of training those eager to serve. But if Jaune had known the cost of this opportunity, he would've never dreamed bigger than a carrot patch in the first place. And so if for nothing else than all those who had died because of him, Jaune Arc followed after his sister. He would make a difference, one dead Grimm at a time.

Though he would not have seen it, briefly, momentarily, in the reflection of Jaune Arc cast by the pieces of a shattered mirror, red eyes gleamed.

Then, he was off, about to become part of the greatest story ever told.

His own.

* * *

 ** _Vir is latin for 'man, hero, man of courage'. Considering Vale has a latin words beginning with 'V' thing going on... well... the more you know..._**

 _Well, looks like Joune got caught between a rock and a hard place... okay, I'll stop._

 _Part of the idea behind Joune Arc's character design was how we perceive the sun as bright (heh, i'm terrible) and friendly and the giver of life, when it reality it's an enormous deathball just waiting to liquefy us all even though we're in its friend zone. So because I found that funny, I made a guy like that. "Oh wow! Such a hero! He's like Superman but cooler and_ **edgier**!" _Yeah but Superman has yet to murder Children just because he needed to prove a point so..._

 _Hope the twist was foreshadowed enough with the background yet surprising enough it was compelling. Ah hell, who am I kidding. Of course it is!_

 _I'm trying my best with the character development aspect of Jaune, where initially we see him as insecure and naïve, he becomes more self-assured if sarcastic and obsessive. It's sort of like a character development where Jaune starts closer to the 'middle' than most, and maybe we eventually see him become the Hero we all know he could be, or maybe..._

 _I apologise for the lack of quality towards the end. I was in a hurry to get this posted before I went to sleep... and it was kinda 1am when I finished so..._

 _Next up, Weiss Schnee._

 ** _Review, and gain your stereotypical evil Jesus powers today!_**


	6. Hero, VI: Epilogue: The Story Of Joune

_Recommended listening: Red like Roses part 1 + 2  
OR I May Fall  
_

 **RWBY Backstories:**

 _Hero, VI (6 of 6)_

 _Epilogue: The Story of Joune_

 _Greetings ladies and gentlemen of the RWBY fanfiction community!_

 _I can't remember if there was demand for an epilogue or whatever, but just in case I wrote this. It's Joune Arc's 'final battle', the one that ended the Great War. Events that occur in this are going to reference certain things that are part of the main story, Creeping Thorns, when it eventually gets around to its eventual backstory arc about the Great War. Eventually. Gotta establish the main plot first._

* * *

 _In the closing days of the Great War, Atlas' armies loom on the horizon of Vale, Mystral and Vytal; at their doors. With no hope to defeat them, they send their greatest weapon – along with a sizable force – through their soon-to-be closed escape route, barely managing to sneak them by._

 _The Atlesian force, ever the ones for protocol, are purposely stalling and waiting for the order. Their leader is making a show out of their imminent victory, declaring a preemptive celebration, while also planning on broadcasting the sure victory for Atlas live. It is their arrogance that have permitted humanity one last, desperate, infinitesimal chance. Joune Arc, Hell incarnate, Slaughterer of Atlas, is smuggled into Atlas in preparation for the strike that would end the Great War – for better, or for worse. Everything rides on the success of the massive, multi-staged surprise attack on the enemy's capital. There is nothing left to give, the war having raged for 10 long, bloodsoaked years. Humanity will either overcome itself, or lose to the darkness within._

 _As the hour strikes midnight during Atlas' uproarious celebration, 12 hours left until the command to move in is ordered, Joune Arc steps off the matt black boat masked by blizzard and fog into a frozen hellhole. His orders: to meet up with turncoats in the town of 'Weakness', a place created and defended by those left outside by Atlas to die, smuggle himself into the capital with the aid of the turncoats, then await further instruction._

 _The hour – their finest. The situation – their most dire. On the day of November 12_ _th_ _, 2317, humanity would face its greatest challenge yet - themselves. A clash of ideologies, between logical and empathetic – between creature and man._

 _The Gods do love a show, and Humans, it would seem, do love to die…_

* * *

Joune Arc breathed a lungful of Atlesian air, watching the white fog float about. Remnant was such a diverse place – he'd killed peoples on mountains, in deserts, even while sinking to the bottom of a volcano – wasn't that just a battle to remember? – and yet he had never spilt blood on the white snow, let it soak through with the life essence of a previously living being…

"Joune."

He stopped, glancing over his shoulder at his driver, and would-be psychiatrist 'if it wasn't for the war'. She saw him, rightly so, as a broken individual, forced to bear too much. Even now, the whispers would not stop, soft mutters of sins and names of the people he'd killed. Suggestions, sometimes, on what to do to a person next – typically involving the extradition of someone's entire insides. But if only for the sake of not letting someone else experience what he has, he pushes past his crippling urge to collapse and die – perhaps out of a sense of duty, or of empathy. Or perhaps the Witch's Mark had grown strong enough that bloodlust and primal instinct were all that defined him now, a worn-out shell of a person.

Whatever the case, she was trying to 'fix it'. Fix him. Joune Arc did not particularly like being 'fixed', nor did he enjoy the piteous look she was giving him. Still, he breathed out "yes, Mrs Grove?"

She continued giving him that look he hated, and just when he was going to do something about it, she whispered back –

"How are you going to beat him? John Ironwood, I mean?" Joune paused. She interrupted that sign in a way more convenient for herself than him. "Word is the guy's pretty much indestructible. As indestructible as you, supposedly. My only question is... how?"

Lowering his head, not entirely proud of the full answer to her question, he breathed out a partial one. "I know a way. It will be... unpleasant. But I will do it all the same."

As profoundly troubled as she _should_ have looked by that answer, she instead reinstated her sympathetic gaze. Joune's hackles rose steadily, fists tightening.

"Good luck." She abruptly said, perhaps sensing the mood, then kicked the boat into full gear with a splutter and drove like all the forces of hell were chasing after, rapidly vanishing into the blizzard-fog. Which, consequently, left him alone.

He turned his eyes forward. "An Arc makes his own luck," he muttered back, then set off into the snowy wasteland.

* * *

Considering he was one big walking storm of hate and blood and death, it was no surprise his first proper greeting from Atlas was –

Frigid claws deftly swiped towards Joune's head, aiming to decapitate him. At the last moment, Crocea Mors was drawn into its path, The Knight of War not even bothering to turn. He levied burning gold eyes towards the Grim, luminescent flames rolling and boiling with rage, and the monster leapt back into a crouch. It growled savagely, bearing its fangs and claws as white as its fur and armour, standing at least 3 of himself high. An especially daring Alpha Beowulf; how cute.

Then about 200 more of its brethren crawled and leapt and prowled out of hiding, over the hills and out of various caves. He was impressed; synchronizing that must have taken quite some practice. If he were anyone else, even when restricted from using his most attention-getting abilities given the nature of his mission, the absurd quantity of such threatening Grim might have been a challenge.

Might.

The pack of Atlesian Alpha Beowolves howled as one, a deafening attempt at intimidation that fell decidedly short of the soul-chilling cry of an Alpha Deathwing from legend. Their coordination was once more uncanny, descending on him like a rolling wave of red-eyed and fanged snow.

Joune Arc's eyes flashed red, and Crocea Mors unleashed the metallic cry of war.

* * *

Joune sighed as he re-sheathed Crocea Mors, having tested his mettle once more and to no one's surprise emerging victorious. The carnage surrounding him soaked the white snow red, an enormous splotch of colour that was stark against the listless, sense-depriving world. White limbs reached from the ground like a forest, claws and fangs and torn asunder.

Joune Arc would one day find the one obstacle no amount of conviction or power could overcome. All aspects of man did. But it was not now, not against these Beowolves. Not when he still had a sense of duty, still had work to do. More blood to shed to try and make the oceans of red worth spilling in the first place; a contradictory cycle that fed itself, a self-fulfilling prophecy. One that kept the Witch's corruption steadily growing, fueling it with death and violence.

The Hero blinked, yet even when the bloodlust had passed, his eyes still glowed a violent red. They say a hero either dies as who they are, or lives long enough to become a villain - well, Joune Arc would somewhat agree. He pondered aimlessly, staring into the puddle of Grim blood at the monster pretending to be human, finding the off moment to relax and think. Joune Arc was once a hopeful young hero, desperate to make a difference, and now Joune Arc stood in a land of gruesome carnage and white snow, where all elements of Human empathy were cast off for the greater good, long since losing his innocence and optimism. Change was the law of time. Joune Arc had been forced to shed his humanity to become what he'd dreamed of - a force for change. He could kill a Deathwing with his barehands, survive in the deepest fathoms of the ocean, and even put himself back together after being decapitated (a rather unpleasant little story about why one should never trust a Lotus Syndicate ambassador. Damn those criminals and their false smiles...).

Joune Arc was as far from Human as the Grim were. And yet he'd come here, where all men feared to tread, to do something that only he could do, solely because of his monstrous nature. He had wandered far from his planned path of glory and honour to these barren lands. Far from the elder sister that had abandoned him, the parents who had died for him, the friends who had sacrificed themselves for him - he pressed his eyes together to block them out, but he failed once again, sitting mute as the screaming faces begged for him to save them) - and the countless he'd slaughtered in cold blood, solely to let his power grow. He'd wandered at a speed, in retrospect, tantamount to running. Running and running from the things that ailed him, the things that made him human.

And look where that had gotten him. Sitting alone in a field of blood, the blizzard-fog, whole hordes more people to kill and no longer a friend to his name.

( **Almost a century later, a little boy from a small southern town in Vale has an eerily similar thought, grieving over the death of his parents. Perhaps it is the hallmark of one's worth to suffer a corresponding amount - the greater the hero, the worse the burden.** )

He sighed, head downcast, golden locks spilling over, Crocea Mors rested in the crook of his shoulder. He didn't even realise he was sitting until he felt the cold snow on the seat of his pants, his iconic (and thus easily spottable) battle armour having already been smuggled into the town of Weakness. He wondered whether Grim flesh would make good firewood before all at once the corpse's of the Grimm fell apart into swarms of black dust, choking clouds of it quickly lifting off and flying away with the violent wind.

Sitting alone, covered in blood, sometimes Joune Arc wished he could do the same.

* * *

As had been agreed upon prior, Joune Arc appeared in the home of the leader of the turncoats under the cover of darkness, an act he was entirely unfamiliar with yet sufficiently adept at. The guards of the town were surprisingly competent, given that they bore one form of disability or another - he was actually convinced one of them was blind, using his hearing to detect threats, hence why he tore off strips of his shirt and walked on clothed boots - yet nonetheless he'd quietly melted the lock on a window and slipped inside the almost claustrophobic home, closer to an apartment honestly, with only the absolute essentials dwelling within a single room.

Including the bed.

He debated the merits of waking an individual more than likely to have developed a kill-before-think instinct considering their locality, when the slumbering body cracked and fell apart like broken glass, and a blade, cold and eager to spill blood, pressed tightly against his throat.

Joune Arc felt such little fear he almost rolled his eyes. Just to prove a point, he turned two eyes gleaming with sunfire towards his attacker and forcibly pressed the blade against his neck. It groaned momentarily before it shattered, not unlike the illusion moments earlier had.

His attacker paused more than long enough for him to have swiftly counterattacked and killed them. Instead he merely glared them down, almost demanding subservience with his burning stare.

To his genuine surprise, his attacker smiled pleasantly back, levying a look that was equally psychotic and challenging. The Witch's mark throbbed painfully in the presence of such a strong concentration of negative emotion, and his slowly blooming dread only grew. If the mark was reacting like this...

While those thoughts took their course, he schooled his features, instead quietly stating over his shoulder "I'm assuming you're my contact?"

She nodded, eager/psychotic smile never leaving her face.

He sighed demurely, turning to face the person that would supposedly smuggle him into Atlas, and only then did he notice the entirety of his contact's unusual nature. For one, her eyes were two different colours, as was her hair - both split between white and black. Not to mention her especially lavish taste in royal Valen clothing, a dark corset beset by a white jacket, paired with seductively smooth stockings and elegant boots. An outfit that must have been unbelievably difficult to acquire, given the rather dire Atlesian bans on importation. The country would sustain itself or not at all, and such nonsense. Only someone very, very good at smuggling could safely get that outfit into the country. Still, penetrating the impregnable capital of Atlas was considered an exercise in futility. He only wondered what made her so different from the other ones that had tried...

As though his skull were a door, she rapped her knuckles on his head. He blinked lethargically, unaware that he'd - that he'd -

For what must have been the first time in almost a decade, Joune Arc felt heat rise to his cheeks, and he unabashedly blushed utterly red in embarrassment. He was... checking her out. Like a hormonal teenager, no less! He had a world to save, damnit, but that did little to remove the enchanting nature of her pale skin, the beautiful sparkle in her eyes...

Her response was only to grin harder, and present a set of notes as the greatest warrior Vale had ever produced struggled to meet her eyes. Joune, still off-balance, spent a moment too long to not pretend he wasn't distracted to realize, then hurriedly took the notes and began reading, subtly (or so he thought) glancing at the mesmerizing damsel once more before examining the notes in earnest. He was already aware of her inability to talk, thus he did not question the mode of communication. Still, reading post-it notes in the cramped shack that passed as one of the better homes in the town of Atlesian rejects, as the second hour of the last day of the Great War came and went, only hours left until the fate of Remnant was decided, Joune Arc felt it almost surreal - existing in time parallel to his own, a quieter, more peaceful reality. Where the Atlesian shells did not regularly deprive him of sleep, nor did the regrets, or the ones who could not be saved. Just him, (one of) the strangest girl(s) he'd ever met, and a handful of yellow paper. He admittedly to himself that he wanted to stay, but it was not the Hero's prerogative to simply give up, and so he once again doggedly dragged himself along the path towards what he hoped was salvation - or, at least, absolution. Whether he survived the last stretch of his arduous road was growing increasingly secondary.

 _Hello Handsome,_ read the note in elegant flourish script. His gaze unconsciously flickered between the note and the writer, who flashed him a saucy wink that only deepened the red in his cheeks.

 _I am The Ever Illustrious Stracciatella (most call me Stracy) of the frozen hellhole that is Atlas, biggest bleeding hearts in the world (that's a joke)_. _Soon to be First Defector of Atlas as well. Isn't that neat?_

Yes, quite. He wondered what kind of place would create people so openly advocating for betrayal, so accepting of it, yet all his answers only confirmed what he knew. He read silently, flipping page and finding some decidedly well-drawn and informative small diagrams with a detailed explanation. He was mildly surprised that she managed to fit it all on the paper so succinctly and concisely, without making it feel cluttered.

An imposing, though miniaturized version of Atlas' capital Jottenheim sat proudly in the centre of the paper, an enormous silver city of gleaming, high-rising buildings, surrounded by six even larger towers connected by correspondingly tall walls. Beneath, it read:

 _Though trust me when I say a gal could appreciate good foreplay -_

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

\- _we sadly don't have time for that. Each of Jottenheim's six towers do two things - one, act as vantage points for the Deathwing deterring cannons (though we don't get them very often anymore, it's mostly the Venomtongues that raid us), and two, project the anti-Frostwing shield (which nowadays is activated 24/7 because of your artillery, even though the power drain is massive and probably unsustainable)._

Flip.

A more detailed diagram of the three-hundred foot towers replete with gesturing arrows and extrapolation. _They're built such that you can only enter them from inside the city at ground level, and leave them at the top - usually for when the military are dropping people off or picking them up. Otherwise, it's mostly stairs and power generators. The walls are... no. Just no. I don't even know if_ you _could_ _crack them open. Only way in is from the inside or by aircraft, and I don't think a bird could get anywhere even close. Cannons have a 6 mile range to within 0.0231 yards of accuracy. Otherwise... they don't miss._

Flip.

 _The actual city walls are much the same as the towers, except that they happen to have walkways built in for both easy internal maintenance and travel between towers. I'm letting you know this just in case your orders are to break them - you only need to down about half of them for the system to fail. I'd break them all just because I despise the fucking hypocrites in Atlas' big city living it up while the rest of us starve, but I'll leave it to you. If you have time, I'd be thankful, and I always repay my favors handsomely..._

 _By the Gods,_ he thought to himself in flustered exasperation.

Flip.

An imposing metal gate met his view. _This is the kicker though. Jottenheim's security is... well, the only way they could be more invasive was if they started dissecting you on the spot. You won't be smuggling that sword through, or your gear. I'll take care of that part. To get past the Door, we're gonna need enough fake credentials to found a fake identity agency, and a disguise. That is also something you can count on me for._

 _You should look in a mirror more often._

With a palpable sense of dread, he pried his eyes from the note only to find Stracciatella (wasn't that a dessert from northern Vale?) had presented a mirror. He gazed at his own reflection in shock, unconsciously running his hands through his normally golden locks. Instead...

"What have you _done_ to me?"

His blonde locks had become swept into a spiraling pattern of spiky hair - like a character from a Mystralite cartoon! His skin held an unusually pale pallor, considering he was the embodiment of Sunfire, finished off with a sleeveless dark outfit missing its right sleeve and adorned by a silver dragon crest. He'd become a completely different person, and he'd never even noticed.

He pressed desperate hands to his face, checking himself for anything that should not be there besides the - well. His hands came away unusually textured, the concealer rubbing off. Amidst his panic, Stracy bore an extraordinarily amused grin, decidedly more playful than psychotic at reducing Remnant's last hope to wordless hysterics. She pulled his attention back with a single finger, pressing it against his nose, and all at once the spell was broken and his hands slowly fell away. He was decidedly unamused, the normally will-breaking glare nullified somewhat by the decidedly flamboyant, Mystralite-cartoon appearance.

"Please tell me this isn't how I'm supposed to be smuggled into the capital."

She continued grinning. His heart sank in a way that had nothing to do with tragedy, or grief, or loss. For once in his life, it was simple pride-fueled shame.

* * *

 _Once inside, you'll find your gear at the address on the bottom, along with your next set of orders._

 _Don't think I should say this - I'm not superstitious, but jinxing you even slightly at a time like this..._

 _There's a lot riding on this. You know, literally everything that separates us from the Grim and all that. We don't get another shot at this. We're all counting on you, but then I wonder when we aren't, really? You shouldn't have to live like this. You're decent enough for what type of people you see nowadays. The war has made opportunists of all of us. I don't know if people even remember how to care about each other anymore. That's pretty dramatic a claim to make, I know... it's only that I wonder if, after walking this road as far as all of us have, if any of us know the way back. If it's possible to go back. Bet you want to walk back and just give up all the time, don't you? I'm asking too many rhetorical questions when I'm nervous..._

 _Okay. Just don't. Don't give up, I mean. I'm not asking because I want to keep living (though I do appreciate that very much) but because no one else has this chance. No one else can say that they're rooting for you. So... yeah. I am. Rooting for you. We all are. Most of us are powerless - always have been. But you... you're different. I've met all types. Greedy, slothful, lusting, etcetera. All the kinds of people that make you lose hope. You're different. Maybe you have issues, I mean don't we all? Perhaps yours are a little... bigger and slightly more traumatic than most, but I think you can do it, I really think you have a chance at defeating Atlas. Not because you have to, or because you're the only one who can, but because in you is something I don't know if anyone else sees. Maybe, after so long, not even you._

 _In you, I see an honest soul. My mother used to tell stories about those with honest souls having the greatest potential, those who could do_ more _than anyone else. It's vague, but I suppose you being the literal only one who can save us all counts as 'more'. I think she only meant it morally, but I wonder if there's more to it. Everywhere around me I see hate and blood and death and despair... except for you._

 _In you, I see hope. Something else people have forgotten how to see. But I have it, and I know you do to. Don't discard it. Embrace it. Be the light._

 _Save us. Please. That's what heroes are for, right?_

 _Well. Good luck, Joune Arc. You're going to damn well need it._

* * *

Neph reared his apathetic head from his book, dispassionately dragging his eyes across the egregiously long queue into Jottenheim.

Around him, dozens if not hundreds flocked to Atlas' capital for equally many reasons - chief among them being the broadcasting of their victory, and those migrating to the 'only safe place on Remnant anymore.'

An automated sentry gun big enough to put down an Ursa Major with a single bullet was mounted to the high, high ceiling. For security reasons, of course, but also to keep them all in order. Dozens of imperceptible gaps in the wall hinted at the sheer multitude of the defenses, dozens of slits lining the walls all the way to the top.

Lining the walls were gleaming security robots that acted long before given the slightest provocation or order, fully self-automated and armed to the metaphorical teeth. One of them almost activated at the stare Neph was giving it, who scoffed and rolled his eyes, muttering statements about Atlas that would've landed him in indefinite incarceration were they heard. Most, to avoid the security's eye, kept their heard down and said nothing, like good little citizens of a perfectly functioning society.

Surrounded by metal and guns and fear.

At the head of the queue, a complex series of invasive machinery scanned and examined and poked and prodded for anything of note. A woman to his left with nothing to her name was forced to strip before the automated guard as the machine returned only negative results. Beneath her thick clothing was a young infant, suspended in a cradle of cloth.

"Your entrance certificate is only certified for: 1, Adult, Female, Half-Atlesian." The robot announced in a decidedly straightforward voice that rattled Neph's ribs. "You appear to be carrying: 1, Infant, Male, Three-quarters-Atlesian. You are in direct violation of your entrance certificate."

In a world less dark and weathered by war, the woman might have protested. Instead with the eyes of defeat she awaited her sentence.

"Your access into Atlas is denied, and the -Infant- is to stay here. -He- is of greater blood-purity than yourself, and thus in Atlas' infinite generosity, -he- will be raised in our of state-of-the-art orphanages, away from the conflict. " They couldn't even be bothered to code unique voicelines for the genders...

"He's my son," she whispered brokenly, filthy face mattered by tears. "Please... you can't do this! I-"

" **Hostility detected**."

The robot's eyes flickered from Atlesian blue to blood red. It jabbed a pronged hand into her midsection, and an audible crackle of electricity resounded as she vomited all over the concrete floor. Her infant however was held protectively against her chest, defiant in the face of overwhelming odds, a mother protecting her son. When the robot's initial attempts at prying the child away proved fruitless, it resorted to grasping her shoulders and shattering her arms, dislocating them as she screamed and screamed. Still, her protective, maternal hands would not let go, and so the unfeeling machine methodically broke each and every finger until her hands simply fell away, limp and lifeless. Broken in both body and soul, she laid there and cried bitter tears of hopelessness and pain, softly whispering "please... please... please..." into the cold ground.

" **Hostility ended**." It switched back, depositing the infant into another robot's arms, who walked off as the infant wailed for its mother. "Thank you for your cooperation."

Neph looked away, knowing full well where that infant was going - an Atlesian military camp that instilled their indoctrination almost from birth, designed to house parentless children. In 10 years, he'd be just another Atlesian soldier, begging for the opportunity to have his life ended in service to Atlas. His mother's lifeless body was lifted by more robotic guards, carted off from Atlas' capital without any hope of getting back, her punishment for defiance. They collected people like her in transports that they sent pilotless into the Atlesian wilderness. They were not expected to come back.

For attempting to plead with the Powers That Be, for attempting to assume any measure of humanity from them, the simple-minded mortal was struck down. There would be no compromise, no reasoning. Atlas would have its way, the people living within it be damned.

Finally, Neph stepped up to the kiosk. An automated booth mechanically asked for his entrance certificate.

 _Here we go..._ just in case, Joune was attempting to figure out how he would fight his way out, regrettably unable to think of a way that would not harm the civilians present. There were simply too many turrets and guards to avoid using his semblance. He'd be torn to pieces, still being only a man underneath his accomplishments.

"Certificate verified." It said after a moment of suspense. "Please stand by."

A series of scans provided thousands of lines of information, his body tingling unnaturally, using x-ray to peer through his clothes and even beneath his skin. The disguise, only slightly less invasive than the scan, had covered his skin in a subtle film to make sure it's Aura-readings were off, with much the same for his fingertips and face. Speaking of which, an imperceptible latex mask held his jaw in a way that felt decidedly uncomfortable, all to fool the facial recognition and to ensure his rather famous face was not recognized. Finally, the film covering his body was also in his eyes, stinging them to no end but blocking his tear glands to prevent him from accidentally crying them out. This entire disguise had been applied by having him first strip naked (in front of Stracy, who only mimed a wolf-whistle and raised a brow at the time) and bathe in a tub of black liquid. Once the film had soaked him through, he dried off the excess film and was almost suffocated by the latex mask, until it properly contoured to his skull and stuck solidly to his skin. There was no hair dye, perplexingly, nor did the film change it - he went in as a blonde-haired blue-eyed adonis, as he ever looked except different all the same. A disguise that was, in Stracy's 'words', utterly genius. Joune cared little so long as it worked, thinking only of the burning eyes and jaw that closed too tightly.

30 seconds passed in which Neph held himself supernaturally still, allowing the rays to roam over every inch of his body. The facial recognition scan pierced his closed eyes, the light almost burning, and after another moment of humming the tingling stopped.

Neph opened his eyes.

"Identity verified. Welcome, -Neph Conflict-, to our glorious city of Jottenheim, the capital of the world's strongest nation. Please proceed to the examination room."

What was it that Stracy said? Could only be more invasive if they dissected him on the spot? That couldn't mean...?

Joune Arc's blood ran cold beneath his outlandish disguise, and his muscled gluteus maximus flexed in anticipatory horror.

* * *

 **One Examination Later**

* * *

Joune Arc stepped out, still wearing his disguise, briefly rubbing his extraordinarily sore posterior and discarding his book in the trash. Then, Joune Arc looked up, and couldn't help but widen his eyes.

Jottenheim was a silver city of sky-reaching architecture, stark-white and shining silver and almost unanimously gray otherwise. Not a single spot of green was anywhere to be found, save perhaps in somewhere off to the side, in which vegetation was housed to maximize oxygen output. Everything in this city was methodical, sharply cut rectangles and cubes and lacking any form of regality, of curves. And yet, as high and mighty as the buildings rose, the walls rose higher - massive constructions of concrete and metal that dwarfed the entire city. The perpetual subtly blue energy barrier forever separating Jottenheim from the frozen sky filtered light, casting everything in morose shades of blue. An imperceptible blue tint that had a surprisingly stark psychological effect on Joune - almost immediately, he could feel the collective atmosphere of the self-proclaimed strongest city on Remnant.

He met people's eyes and they looked away. Those who accidentally collided with him gave little if any word of apology. Not a single person smiled - no man, no woman, no child. As though Atlas' greatest wall seemed to be perhaps between its people, a social exclusivity that had strangers balk at the prospect of socializing with other strangers. Everyone kept to themselves. Joune bore no need for a jacket, given his semblance, yet even he could feel the fabled Atlesian cold begin to set in.

It was such a farcry from Vale's warm and welcoming atmosphere, Joune found himself at a loss. Listless. Confused. Having already been to some of the more... exotic locations in Remnant, he was aware there'd be a disparity, some differences - but none so grievous as _this._

A gray city, with gray people, cast in a blue light. Nothing could be a more depressing monument to what a lack of individuality would do to humanity, what vilifying our differences causes. And at the heart of all of it, painted in tones of white and black, enormous patriotic depictions of their mighty leader - John Ironwood - lorded over the populous, as though daring them to act. Daring them to speak out over his absolute rule. The largest of which hung as a banner from his throne of power, a massive building almost reaching the barrier with its height, possessing the defenses of a fortress. Before that building, a crowd had gathered; in celebration of Atlas' victory. Counting down the minutes until they executed all human individuality.

Still. It was a magnificent city, an indicator of how truly far Humanity had come since the discovery of dust; something truly worth admiring.

It was such a shame that it had to burn.

* * *

Affixing the gauntlets of his gold-and-silver armour in place, Joune idly leafed open the small book he'd found with it.

His new orders read thus; having (presumably) successfully infiltrated Jottenheim, he was to disable the shield and cannons (not overtly surprising), and establish a beachhead for the Individualist forces at such-and-such location. Once those objectives had been accomplished, he was to form a pincher attack with the Individualist forces and strike from above while they attacked the front. Their target?

John Ironwood's fortress of power.

While the rest of the attacking force distracted the Atlesian defenses, Joune was to disable communications (to prevent John from prematurely ordering the free world's destruction) in the building's upper floors - the 146th through 151st, if he was reading right. Joune was surprised at the level of information the book possessed. That much detail must have cost a lot of lives...

The book also provided prior condolences to those who would be lost in the attack, making pointedly clear that they knew casualties would be unavoidable in such a daring attack. The rest of it was more drivel Joune cared little for, more assurances that this was the right thing to do. Something he imagined Atlesian soldiers said to themselves everyday.

If the guilt of what he had already done did not crush him first, then and only then would he allow himself to mourn the inevitable fallen. He accepted war as all mortals did death - never would he welcome it, but face it he must. And yet there was no denying his prowess, his proficiency for bloodshed. A third of Atlas' lost blood dripped from his hand's alone. More would soak them soon.

His helmet fit into place, Aura-powered seals magically holding it shut. All of his armour was held together like this - like chains, wrapped around him to prohibit any resistance to his fate as a destroyer. A killer. A monster.

A hero.

To Atlas, he was a creature of evil - hellfire incarnate, flames billowing from his every move. A creature more fearsome than Grim for he possessed the mind of a man. To them, he was **Fear.**

To the rest of the world, he was a savior - a beacon of fiery light that burned away the darkness. A chance at something better. To them, he was **Hope.**

Just once, he wished he knew what he was. What he'd truly become. Joune would long for that answer a while longer, only finding it in death. For now he was one thing only:

A burdened man with a single chance to make sure his sacrifices were worth it. And desperately, desperately, hoping he would not fail this as he had so many others. The Witch's mark throbbed, feeding on his fears and doubts as it always had, rendering him ever so slightly less human with every emotion he felt. It's power had saved him numerous times, and yet it had never been worth it. Never been worth the dreams or the sea of blood it took to satiate the lust for blood.

The Knight of Vale rose up to his full height clad in gleaming armour, holding himself with purpose and resolve. From the helm came burning lights of white-hot fire, the peak of his flames, his Sunfire. With little fanfare or nary a word, Joune Arc incinerated the book with a single touch and walked with heavy steps out of the secret room, the home of the turncoat who housed him greeting him as he set off. The turncoat himself, a young man seemingly without much to go on, gave him a single look as he marched out. Joune Arc met his eyes with a partial turn of his helm.

"Viel Gluck." He stated in his native tongue of western Atlas, his son watching on with empty eyes. The warrior nodded in affirmation.

"Are... you... going to... stop the bad guys?" The child asked in surprisingly comprehensive Valen, though with a decidedly thick western Atlesian accent; an assortment of people who bore a culture abnormally similar to those of Vale yet spoke a language of guttural and forceful syllables. Joune Arc paused, knowing objectively that what Atlas was doing to its people was inhumane and wrong. Still, he would not belittle how fine a line he walked between them and himself, so he settled on walking over and kneeling in front of the child, removing his helmet to prove he was still a person underneath to the vulnerable boy. The latex mask was only just beginning to come off, so there was no need to worry about how disfigured he would look. At least, not yet.

"Boy," he said, wondering if he would even understand. "Listen closely. I am doing what anyone else would - what I think is right. I am not saying my way is the only way. It is my choice, my life to live. Your life as well, one day, once you grow, will be yours to live. Everyone finds their way - just as everyone strays from that way. Life's truest test, life's hardest lesson, is not learning how to avoid falling off this path. It is learning how to find your way back." He affectionately ruffled the child's hair, who batted away his arm with a grimace. Joune chuckled to himself. "A rebellious one. I approve." He glanced at the boy's father, who watched the exchange with a warm glint to his eyes. "Do not let fear hold you back. Do things that scare you, but not recklessly. Always strive to improve. If you have a dream, fight like hell for it. I-" He stopped, an embarrassed expression slowly blooming on his face. He sheepishly scratched the back of his head, smiling for the first time in months.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to undermine your parenting." The turncoat shrugged half-heartedly, taking his son's hand and guiding him back to the living room. Joune watched them walk deeper into the home, saw the father settle down with his child and play with his toys - a large assortment of plastic weapon props and Atlesian Knight-models the last time Joune had seen he'd been fighting the large metal machines themselves.

The fallen hero glanced away, idly reclaiming his helmet and reaffirming it as he marched to War. He thought of the child, of another set of blonde hair and blue eyes staring at him, a strange ache in his chest. His thoughts, of all places, turned to the mysterious and vaguely psychotic Stracciatella. He thought of a plethora of dual-coloured heads with blue eyes, all playing together in a field deeply isolated from Valen society, before a hand-built home of wood and glass, surrounded by the magnificent red trees of his home.

Joune Arc cried, the ache piercing him deeper and deeper, the Witch's mark practically purring from the succulence of its feast. Of all the things to fall apart over, it had to be the thought of having a legacy - of bestowing something beautiful and wholesomely _good_ upon the world instead of yet another necessary evil. Joune hissed quietly as he forced his tears back, resuming his resolved and righteous stance.

Perhaps one day. But not now.

And so Joune Arc marched to war.

* * *

 _"...in another story tonight, the celebration in Jottenheim proceeds as according to plan. The usual bans on alcoholic substances have been lifted temporarily for the duration of this event, from 9am to noon, as the crowd before our glorious leader John Ironwood's seat of office grows in size. With only an hour to go, the festive atmosphere at Atlas' assured and eventual victory finally arriving only continues to rise._

 _"Our great nation of Atlas was first thrust into War after a number of unsuccessful attempts at diplomacy, in response to the other nations of Remnant's demand for our resources, technology and disarmament. When we refused to bow down to their frankly unreasonable demands, we were attacked first - as many may remember - on the shores of western Atlas. A bloodbath would ensue, in which we eventually drove off the initial advances of the attacking force but at great cost. The tragedy of Gleaming bay still haunts many to this day, a number of loyal Atlesian soldiers being forced to make the ultimate sacrifice for our great nation on its normally shining shores. On the 10th anniversary of this event, we at The Voice of Atlas decided to interview some of the loved ones left behind, to remind us that our long-assured victory today was not without great sacrifice._

 _"My brother was one of the first responders. He always acted like he had... something to prove. So hard-headed... he was trying to save some poor bastard who lost both of his legs, carrying him over his shoulders without regard for himself. Then all of a sudden he goes down, burning alive, screaming like nothing else. The monster of vale, Joune Arc, killed my brother. He wasn't the only one, and honestly, he probably wasn't even the first. That monster killed a lot of good people that day."_

 _"My... my sister was a doctor. She was in the backlines, healing the wounded when there's this huge pillar of flame - like the whole horizon was consumed by fire - off in the distance. A single man was silhouetted against the flames, but it was so far away nobody was certain. Then the camp went up in flames too. I couldn't find my sister, after the bloodbath had ended. It was... just ash."_

 _"My dad jumped on a grenade to save some people he didn't even know. They were just tossing them inside buildings without bothering to check who was inside, and there was this excursion of all these Pre-Academy kids... my dad didn't even hesitate. Just threw himself on it and saved a whole classroom. But they kept blowing up more buildings. They didn't care about the lives they were destroying. Just themselves."_

 _"I... I..._

 _"...My name is Sal. Just Sal. I lost all motor function beneath my neck after Joune Arc snapped my spine like a twig. Just.. lifted me up and 'thwck'. No more life for you. No death for you. You don't get off that easy... after he broke my neck, he proceeded to kill everyone in my squad with his own two hands. I laid there, and I watched, helpless, begging for death. But no death for me. Just pain."_

 _"..."_

 _"...The oftentimes haunting stories of those who experienced the first of many battles our great nation was forced to endure are not things we should treat lightly. It is our duty as Atlesian citizens to remember these brave heroes, their sacrifices, and most importantly, what they sacrificed for. Our great nation of Atlas is a technological marvel, the closest mankind has ever come to making the threat of Grim truly negligible. Our very way of life is based around courage, strength, and sacrifice. It is part of national identity to be the strongest. If some would criticize our ways, we would only ask how they might try and live in the frozen north. How they may try and survive in a land that hates us as deeply as the Grim do. We live in a harsh world, a real one, while the Individualist forces do not._

 _"We do not dream of things that cannot be, save what science and technology may provide. We accept the world for what it is. We are the only bastion of humanity left that has refused to accept the notion that foolish ideals of Utopia and peace will ever last. We know better. We always have._

 _"In our next story tonight, a brief look at recent Atlesian History - the rise of our great leader John Ironwood, he who will guide Atlas to victory. A recount, to put in perspective what our victory tonight has cost-"_

 _*PZZZZzzzzTTT - Erkkkkkchhhhhh - PZT*_

 _"-confirmation on this... we have confirmation. We have confirmation. Reports of several detonations in Shield Towers 3 through 5. Jottenheim is under attack. The Shield is going down. Our Cannons are already gone. I repeat, Jottenheim is under attack. Our forces are already mobilizing - can we get a visual? Are we getting visual? ...We have visual. As you can see- oh my Dust. Oh holy mother of dust. Ancestors protect..._

 _"That's Joune Arc. Joune Arc is in Jottenheim, and he's-"_

 _*PzzzZZZZZZTTTTTTT*_

 _"...suppressing fire! Suppressing fire! Form up! Keep him - where'd he go?! Where'd that bastard go- grlck!"_

 _"Keep firing! Get the wounded out of here! We'll cov-" squelch._

 _*PzzZZZZzzzTTT...*_

 _"MOMMY! MOMMY! MOOOMMMMYYYY!"_

 _*pzzzzzt...*_

 _"-landings of dozens, I repeat dozens of Individualist aircraft landing all over the city. Jottenheim is under attack - state of emergency is being declared as evacuation efforts are beginning in the northern part of the city - Individualist forces are already fighting our forces in the streets. Hundreds have already been caught in the crossfire. The corpses of_ children _are lining the street! This is who these people are!_ Animals _! The Voice of Atlas will be staying on air to give the people of Atlas live coverage of the attack. We will not be silenced!"_

 _*...pzt...*_

 _"...Grim have been spotted. I repeat, hordes numbering in the thousands are already approaching Jottenheim. Venomtongues, Frostwings... even Leviathans. More than a dozen Leviathans. We can only pray that an Alpha is not among them."_

 _"..._

 _"...I have been an anchor for the Voice of Atlas for 27 years. I am 56 years old. I am the mother of two children, Axel and Anni, two beautiful children... in case this broadcast is all they find of his station, after the Grim are done picking our bones, I am stating my name for the record. I am Angelika. Angelika Stechen. My date of birth is September 6th, 2267. Axel, Anni, if you're watching... Mommy loves you. She always has. She's... she's sorry that she had to work on a holiday. If she knew this would happen, she'd be home, with you. She only hopes the evacuation gets to you quickly, so that you don't have to see those nasty Grim for yourselves. She's sorry that she can't come with you. She has to stay. The fighting, such awful, dreadful business has cut the station off. Besides, someone has to give the people hope. That's what mommy's doing. She's trying to help lots of people, just like you, all scared and alone. She's staying on air, so that no one is alone. Even if they can't make it to the evacuation amidst all the fighting. Mommy's here._

 _"Axel. Stay... stay strong for your little sister. Anni... you make sure your older brother doesn't do anything too dumb. Men are like that. Okay? Both of you. Promise me that you'll be good to each other... if only for my sake._

 _"Ance... Ancest... ancestors..._

 _"..._

 _"...ancestors... protect... Atlas protects its own... the frozen north teaches us humility, endurance and strength... we are the frozen North's most steadfast students..."_

 _*pzzzzzt*_

* * *

Retrieving Crocea Mors from the skull of yet another unfortunate soul that found themselves in his path, Joune Arc sighed, the alarms and the gunfire and explosions and roars of battle causing a familiar throbbing in his chest. The Witch's mark was resonating with the hate and violence and death, feeding off humanity's worst aspects. He blinked, unable to remember what he'd just been doing, watching the blood drip off his most faithful weapon. He stared down at the corpse, skull split by Aura-infused steel. Had he even thought about it? Was killing that instinctual?

Joune Arc turned away as a feeling of nausea overcame him, pressing his metal hand to his covered face. _No time. No time. I can loathe my existence later._

His needs had always come secondary to what was actually important. Now more than ever, Joune Arc needed to bottle his emotions and focus. But all the years of doing so were finally taking their toll at the worst possible moment. Joune Arc couldn't stop wondering if this man's death had been truly necessary. If any of this was. If perhaps everyone simply agreed to lay down their arms -

Joune drank deeply of the acrylic taste of war - tasting faintly of smoke, dust, ash, burnt meat and blood, a horrifically familiar concoction. He reminded himself of where he was, who he was, and what he needed to do. That now of all times the last chance for Humanity could not, simply _could not_ fail. Could not allow himself to fall apart and give up. And so like he had so many times already, he forced his burdens to the back of his mind and allowed only the task at hand to haunt him.

He gazed skyward, at the almost 200 story tall building dominating the airspace of Jottenheim. John Ironwood's fortress of power, of which he was expected to single-handedly cripple...

He tentatively knocked on the foundation, even attempting to drive Crocea Mors into it to little effect. Yes, that was, in fact, quintuple-reinforced concrete and steel - something that would take far too long to pierce through completely. He was willing to bet the first couple floors were probably made of it almost solidly, with the exception of a central stairway of some kind (that coincidentally created an awfully effective choke point in case of an assault). Probably in the event of an colossally destructive monster... or an Arc. Same difference. He craned his neck upwards once again. No getting around it. 150th or so floor all the way to the ground was an awfully long way up. Or down...

Without a word, Joune Arc crouched deeply, golden aura shining as he suffused his legs with raw power. Then he simply... let go. And like a spring compressed by the weight of a mountain, the Slaughterer of Atlas vanished from street level in an instant, shattering glass and indenting the ground beneath him almost a full story in of itself. In his wake, was only a cloud of debris and dust denoting his rapid ascent.

* * *

 _Recommended listening - Falling Towards the Sky (Red vs Blue Soundtrack)_

* * *

"Wait... did you hear that?"

"Eyes forward, Soldier. It's our duty to guard communications in the event of an aerial assault."

"Wouldn't it be easier to just bomb us?"

"Indiv's technology's not as sophisticated as ours. They couldn't hit this building with a rock if they tried. Besides, the quintuple reinforced walls would appreciate the tickling."

"Alright. So why are we holding the front door with our backs to the windows? Wouldn't we want to be watching the windows? In case of an aerial assault?"

A long moment of silence.

"...You talk a lot, you know tha-"

The windows burst inward in a deafening raucous of glass and metal, steel bent and broken as the windows threatened to unhinge entirely. The machinery closest to the explosion bent and frayed, coming apart at the seems as an immense wave of pressure sent the soldiers sprawling off their feet. When the glass and metal had settled, wires dangling from the ceiling like vines, machinery sparking and emitting blaring alarms of warning, and the glass laid like a carpet over the communication room's floor, the soldiers slowly rose to their feet. The claxon screamed in sync to both their throbbing headaches, groaning as their senses gradually returned.

One looked to the other, and grunted "what the hell was that?"

The other responded "proof that you don't listen to me enough."

An armour-clad figure slowly clambered down from above the shattered windows, swinging his lower body to land noisily on the carpet of glass. Menacingly drawing himself to his full height, all silver and gold and murderous intent, Joune Arc took stock of the situation. He eyed the soldiers with nothing less than their imminent demise in his mind.

They sighed, and wordlessly ripped open the front door they were previously guarding and ran from their post, backs ramrod straight. Joune shrugged. One less problem...

The warmth-less Atlesian wind rolled through the newly created opening, and so with the rustling breeze at his back, Joune Arc drew Crocea Mors, metal ringing for blood. Golden fire illuminated the blade, and-

* * *

"Hmph. Arrogant fools."

The ruler of Atlas sat on his throne from the pinnacle of his power, literally, as he oversaw his sworn enemies perhaps most daring move yet.

Like any who challenged the will of Gods, he had no doubt they would be swiftly punished. Already his armies were driving them out, the familiarness of the terrain and the availability of supplies proving to be but some of the deciding factors in his eventual, certain victory.

Perhaps, when their butcher arrived - for he was under no delusion that he would not - he'd be forced to intervene. As it stood, however, he was needed elsewhere.

"Great Leader." Came the voice of his assistant, luscious dark hair billowing over her shoulders. Eyes gleaming the colour of fire. "The sample is ready for transport."

"See to it that it is safely escorted from Jottenheim by the time _he_ arrives. I will not have a idealistic fool ruin decades of work."

And so it was that his black widow of an assistant left, as silent and impossible to read as ever, while also containing a mad brilliance one would not find anywhere else. He had faith in her abilities. He wondered, if the situation demanded it, if the entirety of the Individualist force would even be able to stop her.

His fortress of power shook, presumably as Joune Arc disabled the communications far too late to have been of any real use. If he'd wished to forfeit this fight, he would've ordered the destruction of their homes the moment they arrived. Instead their foolhardy plan was only costing them time and lives, as they 'distracted him'. He scoffed.

Armoured feet stepped loudly with conviction and purpose into his office, clanking as the metal plates settled. John Ironwood knew without turning, so his only reaction was -

"Good afternoon, Joune of Arc. Or perhaps that's too presumptuous of me? We still have half an hour, after all."

Joune Arc did not respond. Perhaps he would have bothered, once. But he knew who - or rather what - he was dealing with. A man obsessed with his idea of perfection, of utopia - in dismissing all forms of individuality so that humanity could live as efficiently as possible. Even if they said they were above such petty and unrealistic ideals, they were subject to it all the same. Their philosophy was based on how they believed life should be lived. It just so happened to be at odds with the rest of the world's, and yet, instead of any other rational course of action, they chose to correct that 'problem' by force.

John Ironwood had waged a war of ideals - not duty, or necessity. He was not 'defending' his people. Not anymore, anyway. He was excluding those who did not conform to his ideals all for the sake of having some mimicry of utopia. At the cost of more than a million lives. And in the process, removing all reason to live in that world.

As the power of the Witch flowed through him once more, he wondered if it was the fate of all mortals, the err of all men, to be so foolish. To have such steadfast ideals, even when you recognize your sins, but feel that you must. Out of necessity, principal, duty... love. The reasons were many and mattered equally little. John Ironwood would not be the first, nor would he be the last, yet the very same applied to Joune. Here, and now, Joune had one duty above all else. One thing more sacred than even his own life, or even saving the world.

He would not perceive it fully, the God's having bestowed this duty onto him through a veil of misdirection, a series of seemingly inconspicuous acts that summed to this, but he was to fight back against the **Darkness.** The intangible, colossal force of negativity and evil, predisposed to destroy all that there was, simply because it must. Because that was its nature.

And though Joune Arc was carrying the burden of countless sins, in the eyes of beings ageless and immortal, he shone brighter than the sun from which he drew power. It was time again to weigh up, and see whose ideals, whose conviction came out stronger, more righteous, more deserving of their existence. The pawn of the **Darkness _,_** and the monster of the **Light**.

The hero of Remnant, versus its greatest evil, its greatest threat - a deluded man with unshakable conviction. Who could not, and would not, be swayed by reason. For whom there was no recourse but violence.

In many ways, they were similar, both men of conviction standing on opposite ends of a battlefield. In more ways, they were different, one an arrogant dictator with a God-complex and the other still humble enough to admit his own persistent weakness and turn it into strength. Heroic, in that Joune Arc was only human, and yet he refused to let that limit him in any capacity.

"Well... shall we?"

Joune Arc readied Crocea Mors; for those lost, for Remnant, and for himself. The sum of his sacrifices, his failures, his dreams - all of it infused to his blade and shield. The ground beneath both the fighter's feet began to sunder, bent by the sheer force of their presence, the blinding light of their respective auras, the weight of their responsibilities. The golden light of Vale, and the Silver light of Atlas. The pressure in the room built, until cracks ran jagged lines over every exposed face, the building groaned, and all at once the windows shattered - Joune Arc roaring with the full force of his duty, charging towards his enemy's exposed back.

In a blinding flash of steel, John Ironwood rotated on his chair impossibly fast and staved off his mortal enemy's assault with an elegant revolver, bayonet ringing loud as it sparked against the Godslaying blade. He fired his weapon again and again, the shots dinging - yet denting - his enemy's raised shield, who pressed the advantage and physically heaved his enemy back. Back towards the almost 2000 foot drop onto concrete below. The wind screeched as high above the clouds two Gods warred with mortal means, the fight only in its infancy. John Ironwood dragged his heels in the smooth flooring, unable to find purchase as he was steadily pushed towards the abyss.

And so it was that with a zealous shout Joune Arc seemingly shoved his enemy to his death, chair and all, vanishing without a sound into the clouds below.

Joune Arc collected himself, breathing deeply through the second-skin-esq face-plates. He twirled Crocea Mors idly, expecting more than a few tricks up his opponent's sleeve. Waiting, waiting, waiting for-

A sudden noise like the sound barrier being broken twice over; the monstrous roaring of something inhuman; the swift absence of his skull. Returning from the clouds, John Ironwood, blue flames jetting from his metal feet, brought his Kingdom-felling gun to bear and decapitated his enemy with a single explosive round. Gore rained over his destroyed office, blood and bone and brain splattering onto the white tile as his opponent's body slowly fell back.

Then it wasn't. The corpse threw Crocea Mors with the force of a spear and splitting John Ironwood's body in half. Red and gold aura bubbling from the depths of his soul, Joune Arc's head began to reform, locks as golden as ever and eyes gleaming red. A moment after it was thrown, Crocea Mors returned to its master, alight with the same aura.

His opponent, likewise, unleashed his red and silver aura, his augmented body repairing itself metal and all - the circuitry and metal vanishing beneath pale flesh that poured like liquid over his body, fusing together seamlessly. The two mortal enemy's having shrugged off their wholesomely fatal wounds like nothing, resumed battle, Joune Arc leaping at his flying cyborg opponent. The power of the Witch flowed through both of them, guaranteeing the battle would be nothing if not bloody and brutal.

Crocea Mors impaled in his opponent's chest, Joune settled for using his shield to violently murder his opponent, beating it against his metal skull over and over. John Ironwood flew, higher and higher, accelerating beyond speeds survivable by normal humans and then even further in an effort to dispose of his stowaway. He rose, his opponent clinging to him with all of his strength, even as his flesh began to roll back and his organs compressed, not even his legendary aura able to completely negate the sheer speed of his enemy. Jottenheim became a single dot on a magnificent rolling world of white and blue and green and brown, as they ascended far beyond the skies of Remnant.

The first humans on Remnant to have ever possibly bore witness to such a grand, humbling view, and they spent their time fighting savagely over their ideals. Finally, after several long minutes of bone-crushing speed, John Ironwood stalled just outside of the atmosphere, Remnant's shattered moon viewable over the horizon. In the vacuum of space, John Ironwood's lack of requiring oxygen gave him the necessary advantage to cast off Joune Arc, the Knight of War floating aimlessly as the pressure of space threatened to burst every blood vessel in his body. He tugged Crocea Mors out of his chest and threw it, back into Remnant's atmosphere, almost directly down.

Deprived of his senses, even unable to hear his own beating heart, Joune Arc struggled relentlessly as he drifted off. The Dictator of Atlas merely watched him go, savoring his victory and recuperating his strength.

Joune Arc struggled a moment more, having lasted already a full minute in the colossal pressure before the blood burst from every orifice in his body and formed a rolling, shapeless cloud, floating listlessly around him. John Ironwood turned his back, expressionless as he reengaged his thrusters in preparation for returning. It would prove to be his fatal error, as the fight may have been won so cheaply and quickly in the Atlesian's favor had he not underestimated his opponent.

Moving in an arc beyond his attention, Crocea Mors returned to its wielder's hand and was abruptly shoved straight back into the Dictator's chest, before the previous hole had even regenerated fully. The shield, Joune's launch pad, continued to float away until it was suddenly pulled as though by a rope back onto the Valen's arm. John Ironwood, unable to shake his enemy, settled for an entirely different tactic instead - and engaged his thrusters in full, diving back into Orbit with his violent passenger acting as his shield. That was his second error, for the moment the flames of reentry began to incinerate Joune's skin, his aura brightened. Fueled by the flames, the Wielder of Sunfire immolated himself without regard, an enormous meteor of fire that burned white from the fury and power of its creator. The exposure to such blistering heat at such a close distance liquidated the Atlesian's body, metal and flesh flying off like putty. Only the monstrous regeneration factor of the Witch's power and his own raw aura kept him from incinerating on reentry.

Moving with the force of Remnant's gravity instead of against it, their speed reached astronomical levels - travelling the approximately 100 kilometer drop in only 10 seconds. In the sky of Jottenheim, barely a minute after a blue pillar of light vanished upwards, down came a shrieking meteor of white fire, golden knight and melted cyborg. As though the Gods had judged them, and found them wanting. Specifically, John Ironwood's seat of power; the pair who redefined superhuman headed straight for it.

Some of those locked in mortal combat for their lives, fighting a bloody and violent war, saw the blue light. Those few marveled at the utterly boundless power of people like Joune Arc and John Ironwood, of whose aura grew so large and so fearsome it would seem to warp reality - to drive them simply **Beyond**. Beyond limits, beyond imagination, beyond human. A category of person as vastly superior to them as they were to specs of dust. It was no small amount of merciful luck that they crashed into the tower, for the raw forces involved in their Godly combat would surely shatter the world, ending the lives of any and every living being in Jottenheim. Solely because of collateral damage, their attacks covering such wide swaths that following this battle, entire maps would have to be changed.

And when they did finally end their fall into the topmost floor of the Ironwood Tower, it was not done quietly or dimly. Instead, the moment of impact proved impossible to ignore, even half a continent away...

...watching the battle from the safety of an Individualist aircraft, Stracy felt a deep trembling rumble through her bones. She had only a moment to react before all at once the windows shattered, the controls ruptured, and all aircraft within a 3 mile radius fell from the sky like grey metal flies...

...many had gathered from surrounding towns to watch footage of the attack, but only some had the ability to see the pillar of blue light, despite their considerable distance from the capital. Then, the crowd as one felt a force rumble the land beneath their feet, glass bursting free from their frames as a sturdy wind blew through. The sky dimmed, even as the noise of an explosion far beyond normal proportion followed through and sent many to their knees. A noise like the wrath of Gods made manifest, aiming to split the world open...

...its cage was indestructible by mortal means. As such, despite the noise of a violent war waged above, it was only awoken by the tremor of Godly conflict. Reverberating deep, deep through the underground facility, even crumbling some of its infrastructure, those who worked to bring humanity into a bright future (willingly or otherwise) found their fates sealed. The sample, now awoken, began working towards it escape. On her way to collecting it for transport, the monster lurking in human skin that was John Ironwood's assistant strode through empty, white halls with poise and purpose. Heels clacking and echoing as the machinations of the **Darkness** drew Remnant ever closer to destruction...

On the surface, the sound of the collision had been enough to rupture eardrums, while its ungodly bright light burnt the sight out of many awestruck eyes. Though the tower did not fall, only the top half of the floors being destroyed from the impact, the force which could split a continent had little trouble in felling a number of surrounding buildings. In a single moment, as the Individualist and Atlesian aircraft rained like metal comets, the Widow walked through dead halls, the silver city crumbled to silver dust, and the whole world waited for the apocalypse to end - Joune Arc and John Ironwood roared as one.

The tower laying shattered and the light burning away everything else, Joune and John bared their teeth and broke everything in their bodies as they collided whole-heartedly into the rooftop. Both of them, mere bags of skin, continued on their descent - through the tower's roof, and down, down, down into its concrete centre. Piercing like a knife with the sheer, brute force of a sledgehammer. They stopped, an almost perfectly cylindrical hole carved out of the building above them, letting the sunlight stream in from afar. Without so much as the ability to move, they laid across from each other, the force splitting them apart and causing them to break upon the walls and embed in them deeply. Joune, arms and legs and ribs twisted like the limbs of a doll, and even John with his metal frame bent and sparking, appeared as dead as any living thing could be. Entire body's worth of blood was spilled onto the floor between them, leaking from every possible orifice and even some created by the misshapen insides of either of them. It was the wounds that no human could hope to survive, even those with aura - for it was impossible to even know where to begin.

Then, as one, their hands reached from their sarcophagus-esq holes and grasped the most immediate edge. Clawing their way to freedom, they both fell over, two broken corpses splattering into a lake of blood deep enough to swallow ankles whole. Both of them glowed with the light of their aura, tinged red by the Witch's power, as their bodies audibly repaired themselves. Metal screeching, bones cracking, skin stretching, organs shifting. They stood, mimicking each other's eagerness perfectly, the Witch's bloodlust settling in. Once again defying the boundaries of what separated Man from God.

"Arrogant mortals," the Dictator of Atlas hissed in a voice not entirely his own. Tinged by the ancient tongue of Grim. His eyes alit by red malice. "You cannot kill a God!"

"I beg to differ." And Joune Arc slugged him, hard, shattering his jaw. Crocea Mors laid strapped to his back, just waiting to be unleashed once again. The Knight drew himself up, tightening his fist and levying it at John Ironwood, who lay sprawled in the blood. "No mortal can truly slay a God, but I can slay _you_. What does that say of you, Ironwood? Of your 'power'?"

"It means that once I separate your insolent, narrow-minded head from your shoulders, there will be none to challenge my rule. Finally, I will be at my rightful place at the top of the world!"

"Your commitment to the stereotype is admirable." Joune retorted, and John growled as the Witch's power fed on his hatred. "I couldn't imagine a man more self-absorbed and childish."

"My life's aspirations are not childish! I was born with abilities unlike any other, proving irrefutably that it was my destiny to be superior! I was to lead my people into a golden age!"

Something about John's spiel left Joune strangely crestfallen. The Valen warrior had grown up parentless, and eventually even without his only sister, surviving alone in a bloody world consumed by war. He'd used his upbringing, his suffering to drive himself; to motivate himself into achieving his dreams, of becoming a hero. Except in war, a hero did not always save people, did not always do the right thing, and did not maintain a moral code. In war, there was a sacrifice to be paid for those priviledges, and it was drowned in blood. To save, he killed. To help, he destroyed. To become the hero, he also had to become the monster. The monster that would win Vale the war, and ensure those who had died would not have their deaths wasted.

John's reasons however, seemed to be not so noble and well-intentioned. It would seem Joune Arc would always truly be alone.

"Enough." And casually thrust Crocea Mors into his opponent's skull between his teeth, slicing easily through his cheeks and imbedding in his spine. He raised the older man off the ground by his sword alone, blood dripping from his formerly white suit. John's retaliatory punch shattered Joune's neck and cratered his skull. Casually, the Knight gripped his jaw and twisted his head back in place, the skin on his skull rolling as it writhed into shape. "We both know that this fight will not be settled with words."

The only warning of Joune's impeding action was the sudden switch of his grip on his blade, from overhand to underhand. Then, his opponent pierced onto the end of it, he heaved his spear-sword with a full-bodied toss that shattered the rubble behind him with its aftershock. John, in an effort not to be outdone, put three bullets in his enemy's skull as he flew, with inhuman accuracy. He kept firing, even as he tumbled through entire buildings and off into the distance, the near-immortal's chest bursting in sprays of red. His last shot blew the brains out of Joune's skull, a perfect shot while moving faster than sound.

The Knight idly wiped his mouth as blood leaked from a number of different holes in his body. Any other human would've died a thousand times over to the forces involved in their fight, even if that was only so far, but Joune merely rolled his shoulders and spat up the excessively high-caliber rounds, drawing himself into a leaping crouch. Then, he moved. The blood flew back in a tall crimson wave as Joune vanished, ebbing ripples of sheer force denoting his sudden acceleration beyond human sight.

From there, the fight was waged in even more Godly displays of power. Sword slashes that cleaved buildings, bullets that leveled entire floors, bursts of aura that disrupted the flow of gravity to the extent that they fought in a flying ruin as it fell ever faster upward. Limbs and wounds regenerating in mere moments, inhuman roars as enough force to split a continent was summed from the collision of their blows. They fought in building after building, crumbling them in short order, destroying almost a century of infrastructure in under an hour. The sun reached, drawing itself ever closer to its highest position in the frozen north. As noon readily approached November 12th, 2317, the free world waited for its demise at the hands of a delusional tyrant, while their only hope fought desperately to save them.

After almost a decade of grief and despair, their end was nigh. There were those who accepted this fate. Even welcomed it, seeing it almost as justice for their transgressions. As humanity's wholesome comeuppance. Those who had not given in, who served as yet more proof of the world's fundamentals - the **Unbreakable Human Spirit** \- and harbored whatever amount of hope they could, however, sang a slightly different tune.

On their knees, sitting in the light, the dark, the warm, the cold - whatever nation, whatever location, they prayed. Whether it be by thought alone, or with the physical act thereof, all of them acknowledged their weakness (however begrudgingly) and thought of the one source of light in such dark times.

Half of Remnant sent at least one prayer to the Knight of War, Harbinger of Sunfire, Beacon of Hope, Joune Arc. For all the villainy, for all the unforgiveable things he had done, he still posed as perhaps Remnant's greatest chance, if not their only chance, at survival. In him, people did not see the misguided young man now seeking redemption even if it took his death. Instead, they saw strength, honour, fortitude, and **Hope**. They did not see him for who he was, and thus he became a symbol of hope all the more. No human could possibly inspire them as he did, could ever answer their prayers as they so wanted. As such, Joune Arc had become more than a man, if only in the hearts and minds of many.

He had become legend. Another inspirational tale in Remnant of sacrifice and courage, of duty and bravery, of humility and strength. He had not spoken to anyone not associated with the Individualist military in many years, and for this they idolized him. They knew little about him, and that made him all the more heroic. Yet another story of one bearing a smaller, more honest soul deciding the course of history.

And so as the battle raged on, Joune and his opponent still ripping each other apart and pulling themselves back together again, a weight grew on the Knight's burdened, broad shoulders. Not one of fear, or nervousness, or anxiety. But the weight of duty, of the promise he had made long ago coming into full effect. A Knight's sworn oath, for the sake of his inexhaustible duty and honour. Something done, simply because he must.

Joune Arc **must** win. He **must** save Remnant. There was no alternative, no compromise. No turning back.

Which was why, as Joune Arc finally found the opportunity he waited the whole battle for, he felt it was even worth his soul.

He kicked out, interrupting his brief exchange of blows as his immortal enemy fell back onto a sheet of Rebar. With his opponent pierced through by dozens of jagged pieces of metal, Joune Arc spent only a moment regaining his breath, armour cracking and flaking off like dried skin from the numerable extreme temperature it'd been exposed to. Entire plates of his gold-silver armour were missing, having been blown or torn off usually with the part of himself it covered. Underneath, even as his wounds glowed with the cauterizing heat of Sunfire, his skin seemed to harden and pull taut. All the rapid regeneration had finally taken its toll, no longer restoring himself to pristine condition. Instead, his body visibly decayed, ligaments and skin thinning as his bones grew ever more brittle. This, combined with the extraordinary exhaustion stemming from burning almost an entire city, Joune Arc was long since beyond his limit. Only his unwavering courage stayed his collapse, trembling under the strain of his own body, the one true sign of his mortality.

In the smoking ruin of John Ironwood's tower, having been driven into the basement of where they began by the natural flow of battle, Joune Arc raised a trembling arm. His enemy, having lost most of his synthetic skin and seemingly uninterested in regrowing it, glared at him with a face equally man and machine.

"You... you insufferable cockroach! Why won't you just accept your defeat?!" He shouted, steadily prying himself from the rebar impaling his body. Having damaged his voice synthesizer greatly, what escaped the Dictator's throat was not a human voice, but rather a machine's approximation of one. Further separating himself from the world of mortals.

In a sudden moment of inspiration Joune Arc raised his other hand and dragged it across, commanding the heat in the metal to localize. All at once the rebar bent like wet paper, encasing the Atlesian's ribcage and body, before it abruptly cooled with a vengeful hiss, the heat drained. His opponent cursed and swore and shouted at the top of his lungs, utterly enraged at Joune's bid for time. Even if it only bought him a few seconds, it was still invaluable.

The forces he was attempting to command, after all, were not to be taken lightly. He'd need every ounce of focus to ensure that only his enemy would be affected, or else what remained of Jottenheim would be consumed by a creature so ancient and dark it cast no shadow. It _was_ the **Shadow**. The price of its summoning, even for such a short period of time, would cost him dearly - his soul would become food for its voracious appetite. His could lose his ability to use Aura, perhaps even his life - it was safe to say there was no prior example to reference himself against, thus he had no certainty of anything. There was also the very, very distinct possibility, that like all creatures which had birthed Grim, it would ignore his demands and eat him instead.

The sun rose, and though Joune's solar-based power grew by only an infinitesimal amount in the space of a second, it was still enough to reaffirm his shoulders and solidify his expression.

In response, his enemy's arm unfolded to reveal a black screen, like a miniature monitor grafted onto his forearm. Though the possibility was probably greater that it _was_ the arm itself _._ He could not bend or stretch any part of his body, his steel restraints too restricting, yet he found the miraculously ability to laugh arrogantly in his claustrophobic bindings.

"I was intending to savor this moment for when I defeat you, to do this on your grave... but I have decided that you are unworthy of such mercy, and give you the pleasure of watching the destruction of everything you hold dear." He ranted, nothing like the composed leader he'd been before. Now his voice screeched and droned with synthetic notes, as the flesh dangled from his metal frame. Remnant's greatest threat in almost a millennia, reduced to this... little more than a dying, broken machine. The screen on his arm hummed to life, revealing an interface detailed by tones of blue and white. A single option was presented on it.

 _Initiate order 'Victory'_

 _Y/N?_

Into the dust and ash filled air, filled with a zeal like a man of faith about to plunge from a cliff, he cried "Atlesian Supreme Command Directive ASCD-11. Send a signal to all troops, a direct order from Supreme Leader John Ironwood! Attack! NOOOOOOOW! TURN THEM TO DUST! CRUSH THEM! BURN THEM ALL!"

At that exact moment, the armies of Atlas began to march, and Remnant began to burn. Joune Arc could not see it nor feel it, but he'd fought the armies of Atlas enough to know exactly what was happening all across the world, a horrific fantasy playing out in his mind. Thousands would die in the initial instant they rain fire on the capitals, in Mystral, in Vale, and in Vacuo. Countless more would fall as the hulking Atlesian Knight units break the Individualist defense lines, entire battalions worth of armaments adorning each one, gunning down soldiers and drowning the battlefield in blood and corpses. Shimmering into existence, Atlesian infiltration units would be busy hunting down and knifing any ranking officers in the back. The heavy infantry would be shrugging off the small arms fire as they advanced, heavy machineguns belching torrents of bullets, impacting the dirt like lead rain. To finish off any survivors, the Atlesian light army would sweep through like locusts and encircle isolated units.

It would be a slaughter, with how little they had to defend with. And most of all, more damning than the act itself, is that it would not take long.

Joune's heart threatened to sink through his feet, but even the impending demise of potentially millions of civilians, he couldn't let his focus slip. He almost had it... like trapping smoke in a jar, all it took was patience and timing.

All at once, his mysteriously operational radio from which he received orders normally dangling from his belt roared into life, shouts and screams and the sounds of raw panic barreling through the speaker. His superior office cried out "Joune! We are receiving reports of significant casualties outside the capitals! The Atlesian Army has decided to move in! We don't have much time before they break through our defensive lines - we'll hold as long as we can! You need to kill Ironwood _now_! Without him, his armies will be forced to surrender! We're counting on you! Our Aura protects, Soldier!"

All the cards were on the table now. Every single player across Remnant had gone all in, betting everything in a desperate gamble to win it all. As in Jottenheim as well as half-way around the world, Individualist soldiers were laying down their lives for a fight they knew they would not win, sacrificing themselves just to save as many others as they could. To buy their hero, Joune Arc, even the slightest bit more of time. Much the same, John Ironwood had felt pressured enough to lose the satisfaction from delivering the order to attack while their hero lied dead. Though his robotic body showed no sign of fatigue, keeping up in a battle that had almost leveled an entire city must have exerted some toll on him. They were both completely and utterly out of -

\- the restraints on John's right side burst, the Witch's power rippling over his body of exposed metal and torn skin. This time, he gave into it fully, allowing the dark essence of something more ancient and bloodthirsty than Grim to flow through him. Steadily, the black grew until it enveloped the Dictator's body, eyes gleaming a familiar red. Dark as a silhouette, edges of his form rolling off like pitch black smoke, the now monster-ified Supreme leader of Atlas howled. Even as his eardrums burst from the inhuman noise, and his enemy tore away his constraints with his free hand, Joune Arc maintained his concentration. Blood leaking from his orifices, exposed to something no human could physically withstand the presence of, he breathed.

And summoned the power of a Dark God.

He could hear its chittering in his skull, as though it were scuttling around inside of it. Its essence worked its way up his arm with the distinct sensation of insects crawling beneath his skin. Black marks emerged across his flesh like tattoos, spiraling around his arm and ending on the back of his hand, physical signs of the corruption in his soul. In his palm, the mark of the Scarab, a small dark depiction of its likeness, came alive. Then, as through it had burrowed out of a hole, it crawled out and dropped to the ground.

Then another, and another, and another, until a continuous horde of small black scarabs beetles were emerging from Joune's arm, forming a glossy black chittering sheet on the floor. As the Knight of Vale summoned one Dark God's power, John Ironwood channeled another. Finally free of his restraints, his aura flared a deep, crimson red, all the more stark against his dark body. Mind replaced by that of pure instinct, a bloodthirsty Grim, John Ironwood charged him head on, straight into the horde eagerly awaiting him.

He would not get far. The scarabs, collaborating like a hivemind, scratched and bit his feet, halting the charging Dictator. Swarms of them deftly climbed up his legs, the Grim roaring in agony, and though Joune Arc was no stranger to death and carnage, what he witnessed as the scarabs found purchase in his body and _ate_ would haunt him for eternity. Especially, especially, the sound they made.

It was why he averted his eyes, though in honest retrospect, that was perhaps his worst mistake so far. The same error his opponent had made only minutes ago.

The scarabs motion, minute scurrying that formed such complex visuals it induced migraines when witnessed, abruptly halted along with the sound. Scarab beetles covering his body like a second skin, the transformed Dictator laid silent. Joune paused for breath, the sounds of his ragged panting echoing in the empty all-concrete basement, dread welling up as the seconds of silence ticked by.

A twitch. A low growl, drifting about like a predator stalking its prey.

John Ironwood burst free from the scarabs, roaring loudly, body devoured down to the metal frame beneath. A machine, through and through, infused with the power of Grim, synthetic organs suspended in a metal cage. Joune wondered how he was even able to channel aura, so utterly detached from his humanity, even as his demise neared. For with his aura drained, his regeneration reaching its end in yet another fight for his life, there would be no surviving his enemy's wrath. He flexed his hand, but his aura flickered and died, the scarabs non-responsive. Of all things, it would seem miscounting his aura would be his fatal error.

The hero wondered if this was finally the end to his long, long journey. If a monstrosity of metal and dark, inhuman power would do what countless could not. The hero surmised it wouldn't be the worst, considering all the other possible ways it could've gone. It wouldn't be as though death were an unbefitting punishment for his crimes, all the lost souls and destroyed lives and crushed dreams. It'd be decidedly long overdue, and so it only made sense, that with no possible way to escape, that he should accept it. Accept his otherwise inevitable end.

Except. Except.

The hero thought of a place. A forest, awash in the mesmerizing colours of springtime vale, reds and blues and greens and yellow, swaying listlessly in the warm breeze. He thought of the sister who'd abandoned him, the orphanage to which he was just another face, to the recruiters who only saw more fodder. To the harsh discipline that broke many of the Individualist military, preparing them for a very real threat. To the life he spent, from 10 years old and older, raised to fight for a cause he couldn't even pronounce the name of.

The hero thought of the pain, the despair, and the all-consuming dread as Atlas declared war. He remembered his first battle, just a scared little boy who couldn't even hold his sword. He remembered the blood covering him as he hid, crying himself into a blood-soaked slumber as the world destroyed itself around him.

He remembered the worst of humanity he'd ever seen. Then he saw it all again.

The sister, who smiled more beautifully than any other, who left him a note saying that she had to leave, otherwise there would be dire consequences. He thought of those who had shared their already meager amount of food with him, who had accepted him as one of their own. Of the officers who'd seen potential in him, taking him under their wing, almost like a son. Most of all, he remembered the warm arms scooping up his young, trembling body from the pile of corpses. The ones who saved his life.

From there, he thought of both halves, of all the utterly terrible, terrible things he'd seen and done, and yet also the lives he'd saved, the monsters he'd slayed. An entire life, perhaps spent in error, or in the most sovereign of tasks - safeguarding humanity. Doing what needed to be done, when no one else would. Stepping up to the challenge, when everyone ran in fear. Being the one who would, in lieu of all those who could.

Fire burned in his blood, weaker than the sun from which he drew power, yet potent all the same. He remembered them, all of them, everyone he'd ever failed as well as those he saved. What destroyed him, and what saved him. The agony of his existence, of his crushing guilt and despair, did not outweigh those who had only found their way home thanks to his efforts. His pain did not diminish the number of children he'd prevented from having his fate. And so, he swore, his most significant vow to date -

He promised to remember them, but not to ever, ever let them limit him. For it would do neither group a favour if he fell now. Simply letting his fitting punishment befall him would belittle the sacrifices of those who had let him get this far, and that was something he was already long since sworn not to do. He had one last job to do, and by the Gods, he would finish it _._

From the bottom of his soul, deeper than the darkness dwelling within it, he reached for something he could not guarantee would be there. He reached for so much as an ember, the barest whiff of a smoldering flame. His enemy's clawed hands mere inches from his skin, the world slowing as he internally struggled for the last dredges of aura he needed to command the scarabs. A spark. A **Spark**.

From the depths of Joune's soul, his aura answered with but an ember. A flicker of light, moments away from dying. But to ignite a candle, even that was enough.

Opening his eyes and roaring at his enemy, Joune Arc's arm alit with dark power as the last invocation of the Witch's power he could make powered the scarabs, their eyes now gleaming an ominous red. With carnivorous haste, they fell upon John Ironwood's monstrous form, stopping his clawed metal hands as the tip of his finger pierced Joune's chest. Continuing to emit the roar of a Grim, the beast struggled as the scarabs chittered hauntingly, gnawing their way through the last of his flesh and metal frame then his synthetic organs. His single digit pierced deeper and deeper, a race against time until it burrowed deeper enough to tear out Joune's heart, the man in question grunting through bloodied, clenched teeth. There is little he could do besides wait.

And wait he does, as the robotically personified murderous intent is driven straight into his heart, his breath catching and mind stopping. It was never an enjoyable experience to be so fatally wounded, but with his aura spent, there was a more pressing matter at hand. Jaune was without his superhuman ability to recover, his and the Witch's power utterly spent, and that meant he was about to die.

Blood spurted onto the gnawing scarabs, and finally, the Witch's power left John's metal corpse in the form of a red cloud. And then that was eaten too, the creatures feasting heartily on the raw parasitic power, skittering and skittering as Joune Arc died.

He collapsed, sliding down the blood splattered basement wall. Dying beneath his seat of power, John Ironwood died a fitting end, discarded garbage fed on by other monsters. Gasping raggedly on his own blood, and only several feet away, Joune Arc cast his eyes on the absent ceiling, blown apart in their battle for the ages. Those same thoughts of home, of those he fought for, of what he fought against, plagued him. The hero wondered about the good left undone - colourful hair and blue eyes affixed on a young body, laughing and holding hands with two larger beings - and the evil left undefeated. He grimaced as his vision grew dimmer.

 _Someone... else... must slay the Witch..._

The greatest threat of them all, from which all evil drew strength. Darkness manifested, the void personified. An ancient evil awaiting the perfect moment to destroy all that was good, simply because that was it's nature. He could think of none other than himself who could do it, but that was only at present. Someone else would have to rise to the occasion, just as he once did. Grow as strong as him or perhaps even stronger, to best the long night ahead.

He closed his eyes. There was more, as well, such as his mission beneath Jottenheim, but now...

Now, the Hero enjoyed his long overdue rest, drifting off like a lone boat in the night, the candle that flickers only once more before darkening. With him, he hoped, he took the last of the Witch's curse, and thus become the last ever young fool scrabbling for power.

He was so, so tired...

* * *

 _ **Vale, months late**_

 _"When I was first asked to give this speech, on our day of victory after so many years of war, I had decided to decline. I knew of the resentment many people feel for the people of Atlas, and the dictator that had ruled them, thus I felt no reason to be the one to incite more hatred. After all, what could I expect from someone who'd seen the ugly face of war, but to be jaded from the death of their comrades, to be biased to the cause they had served so faithfully? Some figure of importance would be expected to stand up, and preach our philosophy, our way of life, as being proven superior._

 _"When, I felt, the only ones to truly profit from our acts of war were the Grimm. It was the definition of poor taste._

 _"And so I answered 'No', to the Leader of the Individualist army, one of my closest long-time friends. 'Find someone else to preach your hatred.'_

 _"We have told ourselves this war was fought for freedom, liberty, and individualism, and on some level that is true. We made every excuse for every unjustifiable act we committed, to help us cope, and because on some level our lies were true as well. It was how we twisted these concepts to suit us that became the unforgiveable act, to merely be a token gesture of justification -_

 _"It was then, as our Leader left, that I realized something, and stopped her with the proclamation that I had changed my mind. Yes, I would give a speech – but it would be my words, and my words alone. I would not perpetuate the problem, nor would I let anyone else do so. Our Leader found them acceptable and thus acquiesced to my terms._

 _"This war had spread death and chaos like a plague, but it had done something else – at some point along the line we had dehumanized Atlesians, known before the war as 'Mantlites', somehow valuing them as less than Human, less than sentient. To better our hatred and fighting prowess, we had stopped fighting humans, and began fighting monsters and faceless oppression. Even within our own cities, people of Atlesian heritage, of Atleasian origin were seen as the enemy. We became so involved in our hate that we stopped being who we are._

 _"In pursuit of monsters, we as a people had become one. Our fight for the simple, fundamental right to be an individual – to let everyone be free, to celebrate diversity, to let people be people – had become twisted. Our message of freedom became corrupted. For every evil they had done onto us, we inflicted twice as many – we became the other half to an endless cycle of hatred, our vision of equality becoming so foul as to think equal loss constituted 'justice'._

 _"I ask - what is the point of freedom if it is selective? What is the point of expression if it must be funneled?_

 _"I am thankful, though not for our methods, that we won the war when we did, because I shudder to think how twisted our answers to those questions would become._

 _"Good people of Remnant, fellow Soldiers of the Individualist army, make no mistake. I am not asking you to feel nothing at the deaths of those you hold most dear. I am not asking you to stop mourning._

 _"All I ask is this - what of our legacy? What message do we send? Is this the fate of our existence as humans? To war endlessly, and die pointlessly? To sacrifice ourselves for rights we already consider fundamental?_

 _"What will we teach our children? What will they teach their children? This hatred is a disease that eats at us all, as we suffer together through the horrors of a War that could be felt even from the far corners of Remnant, as we lose homes and possessions and friends and families. Don't let the last scraps of the oppression we fought against have any form of victory, by changing who we are. I beg of you not to let our lasting legacy, the message we preach on our day of mourning for the countless senselessly lost, be only hatred._

 _"If I have learned anything from this war, it is not the depth of human cruelty, though that is a truly deep pit, nor is it the sheer ingenuity we possess at finding more and more efficient methods of killing each other. I have learned something somehow even more terrifying._

 _"It is how far off course a person can go before they realize they're wrong. It is how long the road of good intentions lasts, how utterly convincing it can be. Maybe where you started was right, but at some step along the road, what you're doing becomes unforgivable._

 _"Today is not the day we forget, for we as a generation have left our mark on history in blood, and we will remember these harrowing times until the day we die. Our loved ones will stay in our hearts and memories, and time will bestow us with wisdom and experience. We have emerged from the darkness as a species scarred, wounded, and ever stronger. Though we have borders, differing cultures, opinions, and races… together, in time, today just may become the day we learned to forgive._

 _"It is a terrifying leap, that inky blackness of uncertainty before us as we rebuild. The now free Atlas has even gone so far as to design a system of communication between all 4 Kingdoms, further fostering our relationships with each other. Despite the countless terrors we have faced, mere weeks ago, this may prove to be our most trying ordeal yet. It is time to see if we can truly love, to put aside our differences for the greater good, restoring peace. This time, hopefully, we may keep it._

 _"And as chilling, as terrifying, as hopeless the future may appear to be - as long as we cross through it together, I have faith the people of Remnant will emerge not weaker, but stronger, wiser, and as one._

 _"Thank you."_

 _The crowd erupted in applause, though to the speaker, the sound was as hollow as ringing church bells._

* * *

 _ **Light.**_

 _There are certain fundamentals about the world that no creature can mistake. Perhaps they may understand it differently, across different species - and perhaps even in their infinite uniqueness, differently between each other._

 _Though the interpretations are endless, the purpose is not. **Light** shines. **Light** blooms. **Light** saves. And **Light** burns._

 _For every way that the **Dark** dampens, the **Dark** shrivels, the **Dark** damns, and the **Dark** freezes, the **Light** responds. The inherent cosmology is a balancing act, on a wire so fine not even a God's eye could see it. It threatens at every given moment to irreversibly sway in either direction, via the ever-changing direction of the wind. Like a swinging pendulum, that's peaks result in genocide then recesses who seek to rebuild just after the fact. It is why for every fall Humanity has suffered, every darkness, a light just as powerful - if not more so - has let them soar. History is heavy with the bodies created by an untellable number of John Ironwoods. But there are so much more hopes and dreams carrying the load, coming to fruition by the tireless efforts of equally many Joune Arcs._

 _The plan is what keeps this messy affair from becoming too overtly convoluted. But the plan is malleable for a reason. Not everything goes accordingly. Which is why, even though Joune Arc should've died a hero's death in service of the free world, he would live to become public enemy number one..._

 _The balance must be preserved._

* * *

Stracciatella gagged on the blood spilling from her numerous fresh wounds, lying against the hard concrete wall as the man she'd just saved awoke.

Joune Arc groaned, slowly rising to a seat on the rubble strewn floor. He blinked, rolled his shoulders, eyes unfocused.

"Why..." he whispered, and the tears spilled forth. "Can't I die?"

Stracy gagged once more, breaths weakening. Joune spun on a swivel on pure instinct, blue eyes wide as he took in the sight of the injured smuggler. Given his clear lack of understanding, and having just noticed his stare, Stracy waved sheepishly. Though the limpness of her arm made the motion more a slow roll of the wrist.

"Stracy..." he murmured, and though he may have once had the presence of mind to react with all haste, he merely kept blinking, mind unfocused.

She, hands shaking, fingers fumbling, grasped something from her skirt pocket and brandished it with vague flair.

 _My semblance_ , the neatly written note that she kept for a situation almost exactly like this one said, _is theft. I can take the good or the bad, and if that sounds vague, it's because it's meant to be. If you're seeing this red card, it means I took the bad. This is the part where you say thanks._

 _"_ No... no... _no_..." Soft, disbelieving, but filled to the brim with honest terror. Joune Arc's slowly whirring mind refused to believe, refused to accept that this had _happened again_. This time, literally.

He held her dying body, blood spilling onto his bare shoulder, guilt tearing through him even more savagely than Ironwood had minutes ago. His tears, mixed with her body, stained the ground of Atlas already filthy with grief. One last life, one more body claimed by the Great War. Eyes fluttering in a bid to stave off their inevitable close.

And then her breath stopped. So did Joune's, for a moment, before all at once he screamed his bitter, bitter sorrow into the heavens above. His fist pulverized the ground, easily shattering the concrete like brittle ceramic.

"Why... why... why? Is this all you want from me?! Leave them out of this! I've sinned, I've killed, I've done unspeakable things! Unforgiveable things! Don't take it out on them! It's always been my fault! Why..." The floor started to crack, his knuckles resting in the epicenter as it spiderwebbed. "I'm worthless! I have no life besides this war, no one who awaits my return! I will not be missed! So why her?! Why!? I should climb up there and kill all of you, _all of you_ , for letting things like this happen! I - I..." he choked, crying so forcefully his whole body trembled. "...I'm sorry... I'm sorry... that you had to associate with me. Without me... perhaps you would've lived a full life..." Blue eyed children with beautiful, colourful hair... "I'm... I'm so sor-"

And that's when a delicate hand grasped his shoulder, causing his breath to hitch and for him to simply stop and look. He followed the arm back to it's owner.

A pair of half-lidded, mismatched eyes met his wandering gaze. She smiled beautifully, her wounds shattering like glass and the bandages on his body appearing in much the same manner. Such utter bewilderment fluttered through Joune Arc that his mouth was stuck open, blinking lethargically, stare transfixed. Stracy idly and playfully pressed the underside of his jaw until it closed, Joune too stunned to do it himself.

The red card fell apart into glass pieces, yet remained in her artful grip. On the real card, now read -

 _This is way less awkward than asking if you like me._

Joune stared, mind moving then stopping, mouth moving then stopping. When his mind refused to settle on a particular course of action, his mouth acted instead, and so with an emotional cocktail fueling his temporary insanity, Joune Arc's response was to laugh deeply, heartily, and lengthily. That same sly expression remained on her face all throughout, as though she hadn't any doubt about this outcome or her mask was utterly impeccable. Either way, when Joune was done, he sighed.

"You know, you shouldn't do things like that. It makes people worried." Very, very worried.

She dexterously wiggled her eyebrows, a true master of facial expressions. Then without further warning grasped a fistful of his golden locks and kissed the living daylights of him. He paused, blinked rapidly, then reciprocated.

One of the few theatres that no amount of warfare could possibly prepare him for, Joune Arc floundered like a fish deprived of water, allowing Stracy to guide him into the throes of lovemaking.

And though he was certainly inexperienced, Joune Arc was nothing if not a determined, fast learner.

* * *

 **AH DIDN'T WRITE MAH STORE-REES _JUST_ SO AH COULD MAKE MAH ORIGINAL CHAIR-RICK-TERS FUCK, SO LET'S GO TO THE NEXT SCENE YOU NOSEBLEEDIN' DAKIMURA-LOVIN' PERVERTS!**

* * *

Smoke. Flesh. Blood.

Strewn through the laboratory, all of it hung in the air. The fires raging, the torn bodies burning. A once methodically clean and orderly bastion of scientific progress that knew no moral or social bounds, now a desiccated husk of burnt flesh and engulfing, billowing heat.

John Ironwood's assistant purposefully stepped over one researcher's corpse, bent and twisted as they spent their last moments in utter agony, flesh either ripped or seared. She continued, uncaring of the obstacles in her path, objective in sight. The sample's cage.

Burst open, as though a vengeful creature had violently clawed its way to freedom. And yet it still lay inside, content, like a vicious predator after a satisfying feast. Red eyes of Grim gleaming from the darkness within.

She came to a rest at the entrance of the creature's den; the opening of the monster's cave, like from fairy tales of old.

Her question was simple. "Was this your doing?" Like smooth chocolate poured over soft velvet, a voice both luxurious and intoxicating. The honey within a Venus fly trap.

He looked up, eyes challenging and soulful. "Who else?"

She glared, a red miasma rising from her body. "You were smart enough not to run... but is your rebellion quelled? Or do I need to instil yet more fear into you?"

"I'm not afraid of you," he answered with a harsh whisper, already dissolving into red-black liquid-flesh.

"Do not even think of it." She didn't raise her voice. There was no need. She did not deal in idle threats, but promises that she always, always made real. "You are asking for your own destruction."

"I won't know if I don't t-" She struck, just once. A single movement, no transition, simply that she was once outside the cage and now she was inside. Elbow deep in his chest, cradling his heart. Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump.

"You are but a fraction of the whole. You. Are. _Weak_ , compared to him. If this organ burst, he would shrug it off, but you..." she clenched, the intensity of his heartbeat thundering up her arm. Blood spurted from his mouth, the transformation slowly - begrudgingly - reverting. "You are only a human, so piteous and weak. An imperfect, failed replica. Even so, we need you." She rose, inhuman strength lifting him effortlessly with her. All of his weight, resting on his heart, and the sudden instinct to survive left him flailing.

All at once, he dropped, impacting the metal floor with a rumbling thud. Imprinting his sprawled, young form into his cage. The greater monster lurking just outside his cage flexed her arm, speckles of blood raining down. The rest of it was quickly absorbed into her arm.

"We are leaving. Either you exit this cage of your own volition, or I drag you along." She glared, the miasma coalescing around the sample's body, like a stalking predator. He grunted, flesh rolling as he tried to move using his 'abilities' but failed.

Then the miasma pounced, grasping his throat with the force of a vengeful beast. He continued to struggle, less from the need for air - which he did not possess - and more from the threat presented. "You should learn to be more decisive." She remarked coldly, hand contorted as though grasping an invisible throat.

And so she walked, dragging the lesser monster from its den with lackadaisical force, as he struggled and struggled for seemingly no reward. Out of the smoking, flesh strewn ruin of a laboratory and deeper into the confines of Atlas' underground. Down, down, down...

Down. Until they came upon their destination, a great cavernous tunnel looming outwards either way well into the darkness. Before them, a sleek submersed vehicle bobbed with the tide, immense size ominously lurking beneath the depths like a Leviathan.

An Atlesian robot painted matte black and emblazoned with the rearing, roaring head of an ice dragon upon its shoulders saluted as they approached. The much more advanced models acted as John Ironwood's form of personal security, though he had no need of them. Mostly, it was for intimidation purposes, as the gleaming Grim-esq red eyes of the soulless machine and its hulking, aggressive demeanour would indicate.

"Ma'am." Its automated voice bit out.

"Inform our supreme leader that the sample has been secured." She tightened her grip momentarily for emphasis, 'the sample' emitting an audible grunt in response. "I will be making my way to Atlesian Experimentation Facility SX-32-Alpha. That is all."

The robot nodded in the affirmative, standing immaculately in place as it relayed the message. The assistant, however, carried on. The sample fighting dearly for life as the monster dragged him down, down the hatch, and then down into the depths of the sea.

Silence echoed throughout the cavern as they sped off, disappearing into the black folds of the ocean. Moments later, as the assistant settled in for a long voyage, a nearby crew member robot of the same make and model as the one from before straightened sharply.

"Ma'am! Message unable to be delivered! Reason: recipient displaying a negative to all vital signs. Their death is presumed. Intended recipient: John Ironwood, Supreme Leader of Atlas..." By this point, the assistant's ability to listen had already been drowned out by the uproarious sound of her own laughter. A high, charming cackle of such naturally sinister and foul intent it would seem that she was nothing less than a monster. Which, of course, she was.

"Oh, that fool. To waste such power on frivolities like being a mere king... when the end goal has always been much, much grander..." She laughed once more, her bound captive suffering from acute shock at hearing such news himself, in utter disbelief. "To think... I once thought you could be 'it'... but no." She grinned devilishly, gripping the armrest sensually and stretching her limbs out. "Godhood is my right and mine alone. To see your enemies as meaningless and insignificant, to realise your grandness and power, to have the world under your heel... all these things I shall possess that he was too narrow-minded to ever have."

Within the confines of the metal machine, Ash Fall laughed deeply as the world already teetered on another collapse...

* * *

 **The plan, the plan, the plan... such a tiresome thing isn't it? Necessary, by fates command? Tell me... who commands fate? Itself? Other gods? Or is it simply what it is? Existing for the sake of existing? If that is true, then fear it, mortal. Fear it deeply, for no God can truly be as vengeful as one without restraint... or reason...**

* * *

As Atlas burned and Remnant celebrated the successful abatement of another long night, a dark monster travelled through Remnant's oceanic depths on its quest to become a Dark God. The dawn rose, as it supposedly always would, the day filled with equal parts celebration, rebuilding and mourning. Lurking underneath lied the eventual decline of the sun, the time when such things would end. Another twilight would follow as the darkness loomed, and then another deep, endless voyage into the night would ensue. Like wolves, the Grim - the darkness - would descend on Humanity once more.

The world unknowingly held its breath, the other shoe waiting to drop. Know this. No day has ever come to pass that would not be followed by night. The brightest light, no matter its place, would always, always, cast the darkest shadow.

And Remnant, burning bright and mighty, would cast a shadow so long, its demise might be concealed for generations to come...

...and in that time, those of importance would emerge from all sides. Those who rise to fight the tide of **Darkness** ,

 _[A monster smiles as one with golden hair fights to save her]_

and those who rise to utterly consume the **Light**.

 _[A man with a forgotten past laughs as dark shadows coalesce into a beautiful smile]_

Heroes and villains... such hollow, meaningless terms...

 _[A broken doll cries red tears as golden eyes pierce an imposing back]_

When all it takes to be one man's hero, is simply to be another man's villain.

 _[Knowing eyes loom as a flower basks in the moonlight]_

Moments after one war ends, another brews steadily in the distance.

 _[Black and grey feathers flutter as a white cape hangs from a tombstone]_

Though the odds will be insurmountable,

 _[Millions of red eyes form a sea of black, broken up by gnashing teeth and claws and bone]_

the resistance will be indefatigable.

 _[Red and white and black and yellow all coalesce into a symbol of hope]_

They are unware of it, but they are in constant search of each other. One piece of another's whole, seeking to fix them as well as to break them. To emerge, stronger, together.

 _[Colour bleeds forward as the dawn rises at their backs, the long dark ahead rushing to meet them in a horde of galloping feet]_

Remnant may not survive its next crisis, its next challenge of character. But the **Unbreakable Human Spirit** has faced even the threat of its own extinction, and emerged victorious. Though that threat pales in comparison to the darkness ahead, it still has yet to be completely broken, and it very well may stay that way. Far beyond the will of the Gods, and other such forces dark and terrible.

We will see; if the heroes rise to the occasion, if any take up Joune's legacy, if Ash's ambitions come to fruition, if Remnant is truly doomed. The plan works and works and rewrites itself when it doesn't so that it may work, the machinations of the Gods proceeding always to plan. Why, none could possibly know.

For Gods are impossible to understand.

* * *

 _Sooooo whadddya think? REVIEWWWWWW... please..._

 _Good lord this took months to complete BUH I DID IT! And not in multiple chapters either so as to drum up artificial attraction to the story yay!_

 _I'm gonna start writing some stuff for the next thingy, Red Wave, which is probably going to be less impressive but I digress. Might start writing up some stuff for the main story too. You know. Eventually..._

 ** _REVIEW OR GET EATEN BY DEMON SCARABS, THANKS_**


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